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NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE 


MAYNARD’S  ENGLISH  CLASSIC  SERIES-No.  188-189 


TWICE-TOLD  TALES 


The  Gray  Champion 
The  Minister’s  Black  Veil 
The  Maypole  of  Merry  Mount 
Howe’s  Masquerade 
Edward  Randolph’s  Portrait 
Lady  Eleanore’s  Mantle 

Sights  from  a 


Old  Esther  Dudley 
The  Great  Carbuncle 
Mr.  Higginbotham’s 
Catastrophe 
The  Prophetic  Pictures 
David  Swan 
Steeple 


by 

NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE 


WITH  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH  AND  NOTES 


NEW  YOKK 

MAYNARD,  MERRILL,  & CO. 


NOTE 


Many,  if  not  all,  of  the  stories  in  the  two 
volumes  of  “Twice-told  Tales”  originally  ap- 
peared in  magazines  and  annuals,  afterwards 
being  brought  together  under  a common  title 
and  published  at  Boston  in  1837.  For  this 
volume  of  Maynard’s  English  Classic  Series 
eight  stories  have  been  given  in  their  entirety 
as  representative  of  the  best  of  the  original 
tales. 


Copyright,  1897,  by  Maynard,  Merrill,  & Co. 


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BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH 


Nathaniel  Hawthorne  came  of  a stem,  New  England 
ancestry.  The  founder  of  the  family  in  this  country,  William 
' Hathorne  (so  spelled,  but  pronounced  nearly  as  afterwards 
s changed  by  Hawthorne),  emigrated  from  England  in  1630, 
and  became  a man  of  some  prominence  in  the  new  country , 
a magistrate  and  deputy  in  the  colonial  assembly.  His  son, 
Judge  John  Hawthorne,  was  prominent  in  the  Salem  witch- 
craft persecutions,  and  earned  an  unenviable  reputation  for 
harsh  judgments.  His  nature  is  well  shown  by  the  following 
account  of  a trial  at  which  he  presided. 

Of  one  accused  woman  brought  before  him,  the  husband 
wrote : “ She  was  forced  to  stand  with  her  arms  stretched 
out.  I requested  that  I might  hold  one  of  her  hands,  but  it 
was  declined  me  ; then  she  desired  me  to  wipe  the  tears  from 
her  eyes,  which  I did  ; then  she  desired  that  she  might  lean 
herself  on  me,  saying  she  should  faint.  Justice  Hathorne 
replied  she  had  strength  enough  to  torture  these  persons,  and 
she  should  have  strength  enough  to  stand.  I repeating  some- 
thing against  their  cruel  proceedings,  they  commanded  me  to 
v\j,e  silent,  or  else  I should  be  turned  out  of  the  room.” 

The  third  son  of  Judge  Hathorne  was  ‘‘Farmer  Joseph, 
who  lived  and  died  peaceably  at  Salem.  Joseph’s  fifth  son, 
^ “ Bold  Daniel,”  became  a privateersman  in  the  Revolutionary 
^ War.  Daniel’s  third  son,  Nathaniel,  was  born  in  1775,  and 
was  the  father  of  our  author. 

Hawthorne’s  father  was  a sea-captain,  reserved,  melancholy, 
<V>  and  stern,  and  said  to  be  fond  of  reading  and  of  children.  He 

x married  Elizabeth  Manning,  a descendant  of  Richard  Manning, 

8 


4 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH 


of  Dartmouth,  England,  and  at  Salem,  Massachusetts,  on 
July  4,  1804,  Nathaniel  Hawthorne,  the  author,  was  born. 

His  father  died  four  years  after,  and  Hawthorne  was 
brought  up  by  his  grandfather  Manning,  who  paid  for  his 
education. 

In  later  life  Hawthorne  wrote  that  “ one  of  the  peculi- 
arities” of  his  boyhood  was  “a  grievous  disinclination  to  go 
to  school.”  He  appears  to  have  been  an  adventurous  boy, 
fond  of  all  outdoor  exercises,  until  an  accident  in  playing  bail 
injured  his  foot.  This  lameness  lasted  a long  while  and  re- 
stricted his  boyish  activity  so  that  he  took  to  reading  as  a 
pastime.  His  letters  written  at  this  time  contain  frequent 
allusions  to  books,  and  also  occasional  scraps  of  poetry. 

In  1821  Hawthorne  entered  Bowdoin  College,  where  he  had 
the  good  fortune  to  be  a classmate  of  Longfellow.  Another 
classmate  was  Jonathan  Cilley,  afterwards  a member  of  Con- 
gress. Franklin  Pierce,  afterwards  President  of  the  United 
States  and  an  intimate  friend,  was  at  that  time  a sophomore. 

These  friendships  appear  to  have  been  about  all  that  he 
gained  from  his  college  life.  “I  was  an  idle  student,”  he 
wrote  in  after  years,  44  negligent  of  college  rules  and  the  Pro- 
crustean details  of  academic  life,  rather  choosing  to  nurse  my 
own  fancies  than  to  dig  Greek  roots  and  be  numbered  among 
the  learned  Thebans.”  His  extreme  shyness  is  shown  by  the 
fact  that  he  regularly  paid  fines  rather  than  make  declama- 
tions. 

Hawthorne  graduated  in  1825,  and  returned  to  Salem,  where 
he  settled  in  the  gloomy  old  family  mansion  and  began  to 
write  ; at  first  tentatively,  and  later  with  the  avowed  purpose 
of  making  literature  his  profession.  In  his  44  Note  Book,” 
under  date  of  October  4,  1840,  he  says:  “Here  I sit  in  this 
accustomed  chamber  where  I used  to  sit  in  days  gone  by.  . . . 
Here  I have  written  many  tales, — many  that  have  been  burned 
to  ashes,  many  that  doubtless  deserve  the  same  fate.  . . . and 
here  I sat  a long,  long  time,  waiting  patiently  for  the  world 
to  know  me,  and  sometimes  wondering  why  it  did  not  know 
me  sooner,  or  whether  it  would  ever  know  me  at  all, — at 
least,  till  I were  in  my  grave.” 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH 


5 


He  finally  published  some  tales  in  the  magazines,  but  these 
hardly  served  the  purpose  of  bringing  him  fairly  before  the 
public.  “ It  was  like  a man  talking  to  himself  in  a dark 
place,”  he  said. 

It  was  not  until  March,  1837,  that  Hawthorne  succeeded  in 
getting  a volume,  the  first  series  of  “ Twice  Told  Tales,”  pub- 
lished. It  brought  him  an  excellent  review  by  Longfellow, 
of  which  a portion  is  given  in  the  “ Critical  Opinions,”  and 
brought  him  before  the  world  of  letters  as  an  accredited 
author  ; but  financially  was  not  fortunate,  as  the  sales  barely 
paid  the  cost  of  publication.  Before  long,  however,  the  young 
author’s  necessities  were  relieved  by  an  appointment  to  the 
Boston  Custom  House  as  weigher  and  gauger  at  a salary  of 
$1,200.  This  was  hardly  a congenial  occupation  for  a man  of 
a poetical  temperament,  but  Hawthorne  made  the  best  of  it, 
and  at  the  end  of  his  tenure  of  office  (he  was  removed  by  a 
change  of  administration)  had  saved  one  thousand  dollars 
from  his  salary. 

Carlyle  at  this  time  was  speaking  to  the  youth  of  America 
through  Emerson  with  a voice  of  thunder,  and  transcendent- 
alism was  abroad  in  the  land.  Hawthorne’s  friends,  the  Pea- 
bodys,  were  Emersonian  enthusiasts,  and  it  was  probably 
through  their  influence  that  he  was  drawn  into  the  Brook 
Farm  community,  which  seemed  to  promise  an  economical 
retreat,  where  he  could  find  congenial  society  and  the  leisure 
to  write.  He  embarked  his  thousand  dollars  in  this  enter- 
prise, and  arrived  at  Brook  Farm,  April  12,  1841.  This  com- 
munity was  an  unconventional  society  of  cultivated  men  and 
women,  sick  of  politics,  and  hoping  by  a communal  existence 
to  release  much  time  for  the  development  of  their  individual 
genius. 

Hawthorne  remained  in  the  community  about  a year.  But 
before  he  left  he  had  made  the  discovery  that  he  had  never 
been  really  there  in  heart.  “ The  real  Me  was  never  an  asso- 
ciate of  the  community  ; there  has  been  a spectral  Appearance 
there,  sounding  the  horn  at  daybreak,  and  milking  the  cows, 
and  hoeing  potatoes,  and  raking  hay,  toiling  in  the  sun,  and 
doing  me  the  honor  to  assume  my  name.  But  this  spectre 


6 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH 


was  not  myself.”  But  the  great  eye  of  Hawthorne  was  there, 
and  every  scene  was  pictured  on  it.  It  was  the  sufficient 
raison  d’etre  of  Brook  Farm  that  it  produced  that  truly  Amer- 
ican novel  “ The  Blithedale  Romance.” 

Hawthorne  was  married  in  1842,  and  went  to  live  at  “ The 
Old  Manse  ” at  Concord,  Massachusetts.  Here  he  spent  four 
happy  years,  enjoying  the  society  of  Emerson,  Thoreau, 
Ellery  Channing, — who,  Emerson  said,  wrote  “poetry  for 
poets  ” — and  of  other  cultivated  men  and  women. 

In  1846  Hawthorne  was  appointed  Surveyor  of  Customs  at 
Salem,  Massachusetts.  He  held  this  position  until  1849,  but, 
as  the  office  must  have  been  irksome  to  him,  and  the  Salem 
people  did  not  treat  him  with  any  geniality,  he  was  probably 
not  sorry  when  a change  of  administration  ousted  him  from 
his  position. 

Once  more  he  settled  down  to  steady  literary  work,  with 
the  result  that  in  1850  “The  Scarlet  Letter”  appeared,  and 
achieved  such  a marked  success  that  he  was  enabled  to  re- 
move to  Lenox,  Massachusetts.  His  next  book  was  “The 
House  of  Seven  Gables.”  In  1851  he  removed  to  West  New- 
ton, Massachusetts,  where  “ The  Blithedale  Romance  ” was 
written,  and  in  1852  he  moved  again  to  Concord. 

In  1858  Hawthorne  was  appointed  United  States  Consul  to 
Liverpool,  and  for  six  years  nothing  appeared  from  his  pen. 
His  stay  in  England  seems  to  have  been  a failure.  He  met 
none  of  the  great  men  of  letters,  then  so  numerous  in  Eng- 
land, except  the  Brownings.  He  never  really  liked  the  Eng- 
lish, and  after  they  had  read  his  “ Our  Old  Home,”  they  very 
generally  felt  the  same  toward  him.  It  is  in  this  volume  that 
he  describes  Englishwomen  as  made  up  of  steaks  and  sirloins, 
a remark  which  not  unnaturally  stirred  up  a strong  feeling  of 
resentment  in  England. 

After  leaving  Liverpool  in  1857,  Hawthorne  and  his  family 
travelled  south,  and  in  January,  1858,  they  settled  in  Rome. 
Except  for  the  illness  of  his  eldest  daughter,  the  next  two 
years  were  among  the  happiest  of  Hawthorne’s  life.  He  en- 
joyed the  society  he  met  in  Rome  ; W.  W.  Story  the  eminent 
sculptor,  the  historian  Motley,  William  Cullen  Bryant,  Mrs. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH 


7 


Jameson  and  other  cultivated  people  being  his  intimates.  He 
had  come  to  Rome,  however,  merely  as  a pleasant  excursion, 
having  little  or  no  knowledge  of  art,  and  no  taste  for  ruins,  so 
that  it  was  some  time  before  he  began  to  take  Rome  seriously. 
The  stay  bore  fruit  when  he  returned  to  England  on  his  way 
back  to  America,  in  the  form  of  “ The  Marble  Faun,”  probably 
his  most  popular  book. 

In  1860  Hawthorne  settled  again  in  Concord  with  the  inten- 
tion of  giving  himself  up  to  his  literary  work,  hut  it  was  not 
to  be  for  long.  Presently  the  war  broke  out,  and  he  became 
gloomy  and  unable  to  work,  and  in  1864  he  died  when  on  a 
trip  to  New  Hampshire  with  his  old  friend,  Franklin  Pierce. 
He  was  buried  at  Concord,  on  May  24,  1864. 

This  slight  sketch  may  fitly  close  by  a description  of  Haw- 
thorne’s personal  appearance  by  his  friend  and  biographer 
Moncure  D.  Conway. 

“ He  impressed  me— the  present  writer— as  of  much  nobler 
presence  than  formerly,  and  certainly  he  was  one  of  the  finest- 
looking  of  men.  I onserved  him  closely  at  a dinner  of  the 
Literary  Club,  in  Boston,  the  great  feature  of  which  was  the 
presence  of  Hawthorne,  then  just  'from  Europe  (July,  1860). 
His  great  athletic  frame  was  softened  by  its  repose,  which  was 
the  more  striking  beside  the  vivacity  of  Agassiz,  at  whose 
side  he  sat— himself  a magnificent  man  in  appearance.  Haw- 
thorne’s massive  brow  and  fine  aquiline  nose  were  of  such 
commanding  strength  as  to  make  the  mouth  and  chin  seem  a 
little  weak  by  contrast.  The  upper  lip  was  hidden  by  a thick 
moustache  ; the  under  lip  was  somewhat  too  pronounced,  per- 
haps. The  head  was  most  shapely  in  front,  but  at  the  back 
was  singularly  flat.  This  peculiarity  appears  in  a bust  of 
Hawthorne  now  in  possession  of  his  friend  and  banker,  Mr. 
Hooker,  at  Rome.  It  is  by  Phillips,  and  is  especially  interest- 
ing as  representing  the  author  in  early  life,  before  the  some- 
what severe  mouth  was  modified  by  a moustache.  The  eyes 
were  at  once  dark  and  lucid,  very  large  but  never  staring, 
incurious,  soft  and  pathetic  as  those  of  a deer.  When  ad- 
dressed, a gracious  smile  accompanied  his  always  gentle 
reply,  and  the  most  engaging  expression  suffused  his  warm 


8 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH 


brown  face.  The  smile,  however,  was  sweet  only  while  in 
the  eyes ; when  it  extended  to  the  mouth  it  seemed  to  give 
him  pain.  There  must  have  been  battles  between  those  soft 
eyes  and  this  mouth.  His  voice  was  sweet  and  low,  but  sug- 
gested a reserve  of  quick  and  powerful  intelligence.  In  con- 
versation, the  trait  that  struck  me  most  was  his  perfect  candor. 
There  was  no  faintest  suggestion  of  secrecy.  I have  a suspi- 
cion that  his  shyness  was  that  of  one  whose  heart  was  without 
bolts  or  bars,  and  who  felt  himself  at  the  mercy  of  every 
4 interviewer’  that  might  chance  to  get  hold  of  him.” 


CRITICAL  OPINIONS 


He  was  a beautiful,  natural,  original  genius,  and  his  life 
had  been  singularly  exempt  from  worldly  preoccupations 
and  vulgar  efforts.  It  had  been  as  pure,  as  simple,  as  un- 
sophisticated, as  his  work.  He  had  lived  primarily  in  his 
domestic  affections,  which  were  of  the  tenderest  kind ; and 
then— without  eagerness,  without  pretension,  but  with  a 
great  deal  of  quiet  devotion — in  his  charming  art.  His 
work  will  remain ; it  is  too  original  and  exquisite  to  pass 
away ; among  the  men  of  imagination  he  will  always  have 
his  niche.  Ho  one  has  had  just  that  vision  of  life,  and  no 
one  has  had  a literary  form  that  more  successfully  ex- 
pressed his  vision.  He  was  not  a moralist,  and  he  was  not 
simply  a poet.  The  moralists  are  weightier,  denser,  rich- 
er, in  a sense;  the  poets  are  more  purely  inconclusive 
and  irresponsible.  He  combined  in  a singular  degree  the 
spontaneity  of  the  imagination  with  a haunting  care  for 
moral  problems.  Man’s  conscience  was  his  theme,  but  he 
saw  it  in  the  light  of  a creative  fancy  which  added,  out  of 
its  own  substance,  an  interest,  and,  I may  almost  say,  an 
importance. — Hawthorne  by  Henry  James— English  Men  of 
Letters  Series. 

The  art  of  story-telling  is  manifold,  and  its  charm  de- 
pends greatly  upon  the  infinite  variety  of  its  applications. 
And  yet,  for  that  very  reason,  there  are  moods  in  which 
one  wishes  that  the  modern  story-teller  would  more  fre- 
quently lead  us  away  from  the  commonplace  regions  of 
newspapers  and  railways  to  regions  where  the  imagination 
can  have  fair  play.  Hawthorne  is  one  of  the  few  eminent 
writers  to  whose  guidance  we  may  in  such  moods  most 
safely  entrust  ourselves.  . . . 

9 


10 


CRITICAL  OPINIONS 


Of  Twice-Told  Tales  Hawthorne  says : “ The  book  re- 
quires to  be  read  in  the  clear  brown  twilight  atmosphere 
in  which  it  was  written ; if  opened  in  the  sunshine  it  is  apt 
to  look  exceedingly  like  a volume  of  blank  pages.”  . . . 

We  see  him  trying  various  experiments  to  hit  off  that 
delicate  mean  between  the  fanciful  and  the  prosaic  which 
shall  satisfy  his  taste  and  be  intelligible  to  the  outside 
world.  Sometimes  he  gives  us  a fragment  of  historical 
romance,  as  in  the  story  of  the  stern  old  regicide  who  sud- 
denly appears  from  the  woods  to  head  the  colonists  of 
Massachusetts  in  a critical  emergency ; then  he  tries  his 
hand  at  a bit  of  allegory,  and  describes  the  search  for  the 
mythical  carbuncle  which  blazes  by  its  inherent  splendor 
on  the  face  of  a mysterious  cliff  in  the  depths  of  the  un- 
trodden wilderness,  and  lures  old  and  young,  the  worldly 
and  the  romantic,  to  waste  their  lives  in  the  vain  effort  to 
discover  it — for  the  carbuncle  is  the  ideal  which  mocks  our 
pursuit,  and  may  be  our  curse  or  our  blessing.  Then  per- 
haps we  have  a domestic  piece — a quiet  description  of  a 
New  England  country  scene — touched  with  a grace  which 
reminds  us  of  the  creators  of  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley  or  the 
Vicar  of  Wakefield.  Occasionally  there  is  a fragment  of 
pure  diablerie,  as  in  the  story  of  the  lady  who  consults  the 
witch  in  the  hollow  of  the  three  hills ; and  more  frequently 
he  tries  to  work  out  one  of  those  strange  psychological 
problems  which  he  afterwards  treated  with  more  fullness 
of  power.—  Hours  in  a Library , Leslie  Stephen . 

Art,  subjectively  considered,  is  the  means  adopted  by 
the  artist  to  tell  what  is  in  him ; and  Hawthorne,  up  to  the 
epoch  of  “ The  Scarlet  Letter,”  was  moved  to  utter  himself 
upon  three  classes  of  subjects — philosophy,  history,  and 
that  derivative  and  sublimation  of  the  two  which  is  called 
Story.  But  so  strong  in  him  was  the  instinct  of  story  that 
it  colored  and  shaped  his  treatment  of  the  former  topics. 
His  essays  take  the  form  of  allegories,  and  his  historical 
pieces  assume  the  aspect  less  of  narratives  than  of  pic- 
tures. He  cannot  be  satisfied  with  simply  telling  us  what 


CRITICAL  OPINIONS 


11 


happened ; he  must  bring  us  to  look  upon  the  scene  as 
transacted  in  his  imagination.  . . . 

It  might  be  objected  to  an  analysis  such  as  has  been  in- 
dicated (rather  than  made)  in  the  foregoing  pages,  that 
Hawthorne  is  substantially  a romancer,— a teller  of  tales,— 
and  that,  therefore,  his  excursions  into  other  regions  are 
of  little  practical  significance.  But  the  story  was  never 
the  chief  object  in  Hawthorne’s  writings;  the  skeleton 
having  once  been  designed,  he  immediately  forgot  all  about 
it,  and  devoted  all  his  energies  to  the  flesh-and-blood  of 
the  composition.  And  this  flesh  and  blood  is  no  mere  ap- 
pendage ; it  is  wrought  out  of  the  author’s  very  life.  In 
order  that  the  outward  beauty  of  the  complete  work  may 
be  adequately  appreciated,  it  is,  therefore,  necessary  to 
understand  something  of  its  inner  organization  and  secret 
genesis.  It  is  alive  and  has  the  inexhaustible  fascination 
of  life— the  depth  beyond  depth.  It  is  illuminated  by 
imagination  and  graced  by  art ; but  imagination  only  ren- 
ders the  informing  truth  more  conspicuous,  and  art  is  the 
form  which  symmetrical  truth  inevitably  assumes.  In 
short,  save  as  regards  the  surest  externals  nothing  in  Haw- 
thorne’s fiction  is  fictitious.  And  therefore  we  lose  what 
is  best  in  them  unless  we  learn  how  to  read  between  the 
lines — how  to  detect  the  writer’s  own  lineaments  beneath 
the  multifarious  marks  wherewith  he  veils  them. — Julian 
Hawthorne , The  Century , May  1886. 

But  true  poetry  (from  which  higher  fiction  differs  only 
in  form)  takes  for  the  theatre  of  its  creations  space  unoc- 
cupied by  grosser  shapes  and  material  agencies.  Its  prov- 
ince lies  beyond,  beneath  and  within  the  world  of  matter  and 
of  fact.  It  leaves  things  as  they  are ; but  breathes  into  them 
a vital  glow,  writes  upon  them  the  image  of  the  unseen 
and  spiritual,  and  robes  them  in  a softer  light,  a richer 
charm,  a purer  beauty.  This  is  the  character  of  the  Tales 
before  us.  For  this  we  prize  and  admire  them.  They  are 
poetry  from  the  deepest  fountains  of  inspiration.  Their 
interest  consists  in  the  development  not  of  events  but  of 


12 


CRITICAL  OPINIONS 


sentiment.  Many  of  them  have  neither  plot  nor  catastro- 
phe, indeed,  are  not  tales  in  the  common  sense  of  the 
word;  but  are  simply  flower-garlands  of  poetic  feeling 
wreathed  about  some  every-day  scene  or  object. 

We  thank  and  love  the  man  who  draws  aside  for  us  the 
veil  between  sense  and  spirit,  who  reveals  to  us  the  inward 
significance,  the  hidden  harmonies  of  common  things,  who 
bathes  in  poetic  tints  the  prosaic  elements  of  daily  life. 
We  welcome  such  a work  and  deem  it  truly  great,  however 
humble  or  unostentatious  the  form  in  which  itis  wrought. 
We  feel  that  Mr.  Hawthorne  has  done  this  for  us  and  we 
thank  him.  We  thank  him  also  for  having  given  us 
creations  so  full  of  moral  purify  and  beauty. — A . P.  Pea- 
body, Christian  Examiner,  Nov0  1838 . 

The  spell  of  mysterious  horror  which  kindled  Haw- 
thorne’s imagination  was  a test  of  the  character  of  his 
genius.  The  mind  of  this  child  of  witch-haunted  Salem 
loved  to  hover  between  the  natural  and  the  supernatural, 
and  sought  to  tread  the  almost  imperceptible  and  doubtful 
line  of  contact.  He  instinctively  sketched  the  phantoms 
that  have  the  figures  of  men,  but  are  not  human ; the  elusive, 
shadowy  scenery  which,  like  that  of  Gustave  Dore’s  pic- 
tures, is  nature  sympathizing  in  her  forms  and  aspects  with 
the  emotions  of  terror  or  awe  which  the  tale  excites.  His 
genius  broods  entranced  over  the  evanescent  phantasma- 
goria of  the  vague  debatable  land  in  which  the  realities  of 
experience  blend  with  ghostly  doubts  and  wonders. 

But  from  its  poisonous  flowers  what  a wondrous  perfume 
he  distilled ! Through  his  magic  reed,  into  what  penetrat- 
ing melody  he  blew  that  deathly  air ! His  restless  fancy 
seemed  to  seek  a sin  that  was  hopeless,  a cruel  despair 
that  no  faith  could  throw  off.  Yet  his  naive  and  well- 
poised  genius  hung  over  the  gulf  of  blackness,  and  peered 
into  the  pit  with  the  steady  nerve  and  simple  face  of  a boy. 
The  mind  of  the  reader  follows  him  with  an  aching  won- 
der and  admiration,  as  the  bewildered  old  mother  forester 
watched  Undine’s  gambols.  As  Hawthorne  describes  Mir- 


CRITICAL  OPINIONS 


13 


iam  in  “The  Marble  Faun,”  so  may  the  character  of  his 
genius  be  most  truly  indicated.  Miriam,  the  reader  will 
remember,  turns  to  Hilda  and  Kenyon  for  sympathy. 
Yet  it  was  to  little  purpose  that  she  approached  the  edge 
of  the  voiceless  gulf  between  herself  and  them.  Standing 
on  the  utmost  verge  of  that  dark  chasm,  she  might  stretch 
out  her  hand  and  never  clasp  a hand  of  theirs ; she  might 
strive  to  call  out,  “Help,  friends ! help !”  but,  as  with  dream- 
ers when  they  shout,  her  voice  would  perish  inaudibly  in 
the  remoteness  that  seemed  such  a little  way.  This  per- 
ception of  an  infinite  shivering  solitude,  amid  which  we 
cannot  come  close  enough  to  human  beings  to  be  warmed 
by  them,  and  when  they  turn  to  cold,  chilly  shapes  of  mist, 
is  one  of  the  most  forlorn  results  of  any  accident,  misfor- 
tune, crime,  or  peculiarity  of  character,  that  puts  an  indi- 
vidual ajar  with  the  world. — G.  W.  Curtis,  North  American 
Review,  Oct.  1864 . 

But  we  may  often  recognize,  even  when  we  cannot 
express  in  words,  the  strange  family  likeness  which  exists 
in  characteristics  which  are  superficially  antagonistic. 
The  man  of  action  may  be  bound  by  subtle  ties  to  the 
speculative  metaphysician ; and  Hawthorne’s  mind, 
amidst  the  most  obvious  differences,  had  still  an  affinity  to 
his  remote  forefathers.  Their  bugbears  had  become  his 
playthings ; but  the  witches,  though  they  have  no  reality 
have  still  a fascination  for  him.  The  interest  which  he  feels 
in  them,  even  in  their  now  shadowy  state,  is  a proof  that  he 
would  have  believed  in  them  in  good  earnest  a century 
and  a half  earlier.  The  imagination,  working  in  a 
different  intellectual  atmosphere,  is  unable  to  project  its 
images  upon  the  external  world ; but  it  still  forms  them  in 
the  old  shape.  His  solitary  musings  necessarily  employ  a 
modern  dialect,  but  they  often  turn  on  the  same  topics 
which  occurred  to  Jonathan  Edwards  in  the  woods  of 
Connecticut.  Instead  of  the  old  Puritan  speculations 
about  predestination  and  free-will, he  dwells  upon  the  trans- 
mission by  natural  laws  of  an  hereditary  curse,  and  upon 


14 


CRITICAL  OPINIONS 


the  strange  blending  of  good  and  evil,  which  may  cause 
sin  to  be  an  awakening  impulse  in  the  human  soul.  . . . 

The  strange  mysteries  in  which  the  world  and  our  nature 
are  shrouded  are  always  present  to  his  imagination;  he 
catches  dim  glimpses  of  the  laws  which  bring  out  strange 
harmonies,  but,  on  the  whole,  tend  rather  to  deepen  than 
to  clear  the  mysteries.  He  loves  the  marvellous,  not  in  the 
vulgar  sense  of  the  word,  but  as  a symbol  of  the  perplexity 
which  encounters  every  thoughtful  man  in  his  journey 
through  life.  Similar  tenets  at  an  earlier  period  might, 
with  almost  equal  probability,  have  led  him  to  the  stake  as 
a dabbler  in  forbidden  sciences,  or  have  caused  him  to  be 
revered  as  one  to  whom  a deep  spiritual  instinct  had  been 
granted. — Hours  in  a Library , Leslie  Stephen. 

Another  characteristic  of  this  writer  is  the  exceeding 
beauty  of  his  style.  It  is  as  clear  as  running  waters  are. 
Indeed,  he  uses  words  as  mere  stepping-stones,  upon 
which,  with  a free  and  youthful  bound,  his  spirit  crosses 
and  recrosses  the  bright  and  rushing  stream  of  thought. 
Some  writers  of  the  present  day  have  introduced  a kind  of 
Gothic  architecture  into  their  style.  All  is  fantastic,  vast 
and  wondrous  in  the  outward  form,  and  within  it  myster- 
ious twilight,  and  the  swelling  sound  of  an  organ,  and  a 
voice  chanting  hymns  in  Latin,  which  need  a translation 
for  many  of  the  crowd.—  H.  W.  Longfellow , North  American 
Eeview , 1837. 


TWICE-TOLD  TALES 


THE  GRAY  CHAMPION 

There  was  once  a time  when  New  England 
groaned  under  the  actual  pressure  of  heavier 
wrongs  than  those  threatened  ones  which 
brought  on  the  Revolution.  James  II.,  the  bigot- 
ed successor  of  Charles  the  Voluptuous,  had  5 
annulled  the  charters  of  all  the  colonies,  and  sent  a 
harsh  and  unprincipled  soldier  to  take  away  our 
liberties  and  endanger  our  religion.  The  adminis- 
tration of  Sir  Edmund  Andros  lacked  scarcely  a 
single  characteristic  of  tyranny:  a Governor  andio 
Council,  holding  office  from  the  King,  and  wholly 
independent  of  the  country ; laws  made  and  taxes 
levied  without  concurrence  of  the  people,  immedi- 
ate or  by  their  representatives ; the  rights  of  pri- 
vate citizens  violated,  and  the  titles  of  all  landed  15 
property  declared  void;  the  voice  of  complaint 
stifled  by  restrictions  on  the  press;  and,  finally, 
disaffection  overawed  by  the  first  band  of  mercen- 
ary troops  that  ever  marched  on  our  free  soil. 

16 


16 


TWICE-TOLD  TALES 


For  two  years  our  ancestors  were  kept  in  sullen 
submission  by  that  filial  love  which  had  invariably 
secured  their  allegiance  to  the  mother  country, 
whether  its  head  chanced  to  be  a Parliament,  Pro- 
5tector,  or  Popish  Monarch.  Till  these  evil  times, 
however,  such  allegiance  had  been  merely  nominal, 
and  the  colonists  had  ruled  themselves,  enjoying 
far  more  freedom  than  is  even  yet  the  privilege  of 
the  native  subjects  of  Great  Britain. 

10  At  length  a rumor  reached  our  shores  that  the 
Prince  of  Orange  had  ventured  on  an  enterprise  the 
success  of  which  would  be  the  triumph  of  civil  and 
religious  rights  and  the  salvation  of  New  England. 
It  was  but  a doubtful  whisper;  it  might  be  false, 
15  or  the  attempt  might  fail ; and,  in  either  case,  the 
man  that  stirred  against  King  James  would  lose 
his  head.  Still,  the  intelligence  produced  a marked 
effect.  The  people  smiled  mysteriously  in  the 
streets,  and  threw  bold  glances  at  their  oppress- 
20ors;  while,  far  and  wide,  there  was  a subdued  and 
silent  agitation,  as  if  the  slightest  signal  would 
rouse  the  whole  land  from  its  sluggish  desponden- 
cy. Aware  of  their  danger,  the  riders  resolved  to 
avert  it  by  an  imposing  display  of  strength,  and 
25  perhaps  to  confirm  their  despotism  by  yet  harsher 
measures.  One  afternoon  in  April,  1689,  Sir  Ed- 
mund Andros  and  his  favorite  councillors,  being 
warm  with  wine,  assembled  the  redcoats  of  the 
Governor’s  Guard,  and  made  their  appearance  in 
30  the  streets  of  Boston.  The  sun  was  near  setting 
when  the  march  commenced. 


THE  GRAY  CHAMPION 


17 


The  roll  of  the  drum,  at  that  unquiet  crisis, 
seemed  to  go  through  the  streets,  less  as  the  mar- 
tial music  of  the  soldiers,  than  as  a muster-call  to 
the  inhabitants  themselves.  A multitude,  by  vari- 
ous avenues,  assembled  in  King  Street,  which  was 
destined  to  be  the  scene,  nearly  a century  after- 
wards, of  another  encounter  between  the  troops  of 
Britain  and  a people  struggling  against  her  tyran- 
ny. Though  more  than  sixty  years  had  elapsed 
since  the  Pilgrims  came,  this  crowd  of  their  de- 
scendants still  showed  the  strong  and  sombre 
features  of  their  character  perhaps  more  strikingly 
in  such  a stern  emergency  than  on  happier  occa- 
sions. There  was  the  sober  garb,  the  general 
severity  of  mien,  the  gloomy  but  undismayed 
expression,  the  Scriptural  forms  of  speech,  and  the 
confidence  in  Heaven’s  blessing  on  a righteous 
cause,  which  would  have  marked  a band  of  the 
original  Puritans,  wrhen  threatened  by  some  peril 
of  the  wilderness.  Indeed,  it  was  not  yet  time  for 
the  old  spirit  to  be  extinct ; since  there  were  men  in 
the  street,  that  day,  who  had  worshipped  there  be- 
neath the  trees,  before  a house  was  reared  to  the 
God  for  whom  they  had  become  exiles.  Old  sol- 


1 Another  encounter.  On  March  5th,  1770,  occurred  the  “ Boston 
Massacre, ” one  of  the  many  inflammatory  events  leading  up  to  the 
Revolution.  It  was  a broil  between  the  populace  and  the  British 
soldiers  in  King  Street  (now  State  Street),  in  which  the  soldiers 
fired,  killing  three  men  and  wounding  eight. 

24  Old  soldiers  of  the  Parliament.  Old  Puritans  who  had  fought 
in  the  Parliamentary  Army  under  Cromwell. 


5 

10 

15 

20 


18 


TWICE-TOLD  TALES 


diers  of  the  Parliament  were  here,  too,  smiling 
grimly  at  the  thought,  that  their  aged  arms  might 
strike  another  blow  against  the  house  of  Stuart. 
Here,  also,  were  the  veterans  of  King  Philip’s  war, 
6 who  had  burned  villages  and  slaughtered  young 
and  old,  with  pious  fierceness,  while  the  godly  souls 
throughout  thfe  land  were  helping  them  with  pray- 
er. Several  ministers  were  scattered  among  the 
crowd,  which,  unlike  all  other  mobs,  regarded  them 
10  with  such  reverence,  as  if  there  were  sanctity  in 
their  very  garments.  These  holy  men  exerted  their 
influence  to  quiet  the  people,  but  not  to  disperse 
them.  Meantime,  the  purpose  of  the  Governor,  in 
disturbing  the  peace  of  the  town,  at  a period  when 
15  the  slightest  commotion  might  throw  the  country 
into  a ferment,  was  almost  the  universal  subject  of 
inquiry,  and  variously  explained. 

“Satan  will  strike  his  master-stroke  presently,” 
cried  some,  “because  he  knoweth  that  his  time  is 
20  short.  All  our  godly  pastors  are  to  be  dragged  to 
prison ! We  shall  see  them  at  a Smithfield  fire  in 
King  Street ! ” 

Hereupon  the  people  of  each  parish  gathered 
closer  round  their  minister,  who  looked  calmly  up- 
' 25  wards  and  assumed  a more  apostolic  dignity,  as 
well  befitted  a candidate  for  the  highest  honor  of 
his  profession,  the  crown  of  martyrdom.  It  was 
actually  fancied,  at  that  period,  that  New  England 


21  Smithfield.  A part  of  London  formerly  just  outside  the  old  city 
walls,  which  is  famous  as  the  scene  of  the  burning  of  hundreds  of  Prot- 
estants during  the  persecutions  of  the  16th  century. 


THE  GRAY  CHAMPION 


19 


might  have  a John  Rogers  of  her  own,  to  take  the 
place  of  that  worthy  in  the  Primer. 

“ The  Pope  of  Rome  has  given  orders  for  a new 
St.  Bartholomew!”  cried  others.  “We  are  to  he 
massacred,  man  and  male  child  ! ” 5 

Neither  was  this  rumor  wholly  discredited,  al- 
though the  wiser  class  believed  the  Governor’s 
object  somewhat  less  atrocious.  His  predecessor 
under  the  old  charter,  Bradstreet,  a venerable  com- 
panion of  the  first  settlers,  was  known  to  be  in  10 
town.  There  were  grounds  for  conjecturing  that 
Sir  Edmund  Andros  intended,  at  once,  to  strike 
terror,  by  a parade  of  military  force,  and  to  con- 
found the  opposite  faction  by  possessing  himself  of 
their  chief.  15 

“Stand  firm  for  the  old  charter,  Governor!” 
shouted  the  crowd,  seizing  upon  the  idea.  “The 
good  old  Governor  Bradstreet!  ” 

2 Primer.  The  “ New  England  Primer  ” is  meant,  From  the  end  of 
the  17th  century  well  into  this,  the  “New  England  Primer”  was  the 
only  primer  used.  It  was  a little  book  illustrated  with  quaint  woodcuts 
usually  bound  in  oaken  covers  as  inflexible  as  the  religious  doctrines 
it  contained.  It  has  been  aptly  called  “The  little  Bible  of  New  Eng- 
land.” The  account  of  John  Kogers  in  the  Primer  may  be  quoted 
verbatim : 

“Mr.  John  Rogers,  Minister  of  the  Gospel  in  London,  was  the  first 
martyr  in  Queen  Mary’s  reign,  and  was  burnt  at  Smithfield,  February 
the  fourteenth.  1554.  His  wife,  with  nine  small  children,  and  one  at  her 
breast,  following  him  to  the 'stake:  with  which  sorrowful  sight  he  was 
not  in  the  least  daunted,  but  with  wonderful  patience,  died  courage- 
ously for  the  Gospel  of  Jesus  Christ.”  This  was  accompanied  by  a 
rough  cut  showing  the  martyr’s  wife  and  children  looking  on  ruefully 
at  the  execution. 

4 st.  Bartholomew.  On  the  night  of  Aug.  23,  1572,  Admiral  Coligny, 
the  Huguenot  leader,  was  murdered  in  Paris,  and  a general  massacre 
of  the  Huguenots  ensued.  Over  30,000  Protestants  were  slaughtered 
throughout  France, 


20 


TWICE-TOLD  TALES 


While  this  cry  was  at  the  loudest,  the  people  were 
surprised  by  the  well-known  figure  of  Governor 
Bradstreet  himself,  a patriarch  of  nearly  ninety, 
who  appeared  on  the  elevated  steps  of  a door,  and, 
5 with  characteristic  mildness,  besought  them  to 
submit  to  the  constituted  authorities. 

“My  children,”  concluded  this  venerable  person, 
“ do  nothing  rashly.  Cry  not  aloud,  but  pray  for 
the  welfare  of  New  England,  and  expect  patiently 
10  what  the  Lord  will  do  in  this  matter ! ” 

The  event  was  soon  to  be  decided.  All  this  time, 
the  roll  of  the  drum  had  been  approaching  through 
Cornhill,  louder  and  deeper,  till  with  reverberations 
from  house  to  house,  and  the  regular  tramp  of 
15  martial  footsteps,  it  burst  into  the  street.  A 
double  rank  of  soldiers  made  their  appearance, 
occupying  the  whole  breadth  of  the  passage,  with 
shouldered  matchlocks,  and  matches  burning,  so 
as  to  present  a row  of  fires  in  the  dusk.  Their 
20  steady  march  was  like  the  progress  of  a machine, 
that  would  roll  irresistibly  over  everything  in  its 
way.  Next,  moving  slowly,  with  a confused  clatter 
of  hoofs  on  the  pavement,  rode  a party  of  mounted 
gentlemen,  the  central  figure  being  Sir  Edmund 
25  Andros,  elderly,  but  erect  and  soldier-like.  Those 
around  him  were  his  favorite  councillors,  and  the 
bitterest  foes  of  New  England.  At  his  right  hand 
rode  Edward  Randolph,  our  arch-enemy,  that 
blasted  wretch,”  as  Cotton  Mather  calls  him,  who 

28  Edward  Randolph.  See  “ Edward  Randolph's  Portrait,”  p.  90. 

29  Cotton  Mather  (1663-1728).  A famous  theologian  and  writer,  and 
one  of  the  most  prominent  figures  in  the  colony. 


THE  GRAY  CHAMPION 


21 


achieved  the  downfall  of  our  ancient  government, 
and  was  followed  with  a sensible  curse,  through 
life  and  to  his  grave.  On  the  other  side  was  Bulli- 
vant,  scattering  jests  and  mockery  as  he  rode 
along.  Dudley  came  behind,  with  a downcast  5 
look,  dreading,  as  well  he  might,  to  meet  the  indig- 
nant gaze  of  the  people,  who  beheld  him,  their  only 
countryman  by  birth,  among  the  oppressors  of  his 
native  land.  The  captain  of  a frigate  in  the  har- 
bor, and  two  or  three  civil  officers  under  the  Crown,  10 
were  also  there.  But  the  figure  which  most  at- 
tracted the  public  eye,  and  stirred  up  the  deepest 
feeling,  was  the  Episcopal  Clergyman  of  King’s 
Chapel,  riding  haughtily  among  the  magistrates  in 
his  priestly  vestments,  the  fitting  representative  of  15 
prelacy  and  persecution,  the  union  of  Church  and 
State,  and  all  those  abominations  which  had  driv- 
en the  Puritans  to  the  wilderness.  Another  guard 
of  soldiers,  in  double  rank,  brought  up  the  rear. 


3 Dr.  Bullivant.  “Among  a people  where  so  few  possessed  or  were 
allowed  to  exercise  the  art  of  extracting  the  mirth  which  lies  hidden 
like  latent  caloric  in  almost  everything,  a gay  apothecary,  such  as  Dr. 
Bullivant,  must  have  heen  a phenomenon. 

“James  II.  during  four  years  of  his  despotic  reign  revoked  the  char- 
ters of  the  American  Colonies,  arrogated  the  appointment  of  their 
magistrates  and  annulled  all  those  legal  and  prescriptive  rights  which 
had  hitherto  constituted  them  nearly  independent  states.  Among  the 
foremost  advocates  of  the  royal  usurpations  was  Dr.  Bullivant. 
Gifted  with  a smart  and  ready  intellect,  busy  and  bold,  he  acquired 
great  influence  in  the  new  government,  and  assisted  Sir  Edmund  An- 
dros, Edward  Randolph,  and  five  or  six  others,  to  browbeat  the  council 
and  misrule  the  northern  provinces  according  to  their  pleasure.” — 
Hawthorne. 

5 Joseph  Dudley  ( 1647-1720).  In  1686  Dudley  had  been  appointed  Presi- 
dent of  New  England. 


22 


TWICE-TOLD  TALES 


The  whole  scene  was  a picture  of  the  condition  of 
New  England,  and  its  moral,  the  deformity  of  any 
government  that  does  not  grow  out  of  the  nature 
of  things  and  the  character  of  the  people.  On  one 
5 side  the  religious  multitude,  with' their  sad  visages 
and  dark  attire,  and  on  the  other,  the  group  of 
despotic  rulers,  with  the  High-Churchman  in  the 
midst,  and  here  and  there  a crucifix  at  their  bos- 
oms, all  magnificently  clad,  flushed  with  wine, 
10  proud  of  unjust  authority,  and  scoffing  at  the  uni- 
versal groan.  And  the  mercenary  soldiers,  waiting 
but  the  word  to  deluge  the  street  with  blood, 
showed  the  only  means  by  which  obedience  could 
be  secured. 

15  “O  Lord  of  Hosts,”  cried  a voice  among  the 
crowd,  “ provide  a Champion  for  thy  people ! ” 
This  ejaculation  was  loudly  uttered,  and  served 
as  a herald’s  cry,  to  introduce  a remarkable  per- 
sonage. The  crowd  had  rolled  back,  and  were  now 
20  huddled  together  nearly  at  the  extremity  of  the 
street,  while  the  soldiers  had  advanced  no  more 
than  a third  of  its  length.  The  intervening  space 
was  empty, — a paved  solitude,  between  lofty  edi- 
fices, which  threw  almost  a twilight  shadow  over 
25  it.  Suddenly,  there  was  seen  the  figure  of  an  an- 
cient man,  who  seemed  to  have  emerged  from 
among  the  people,  and  wTas  walking  by  himself 
along  the  centre  of  the  street,  to  confront  the 
armed  band.  He  wore  the  old  Puritan  dress,  a dark 
30  cloak  and  a steeple-crowned  hat,  in  the  fashion  of 
at  least  fifty  years  before,  with  a heavy  sword 


THE  GRAY  CHAMPION 


23 


upon  his  thigh,  but  a staff  in  his  hand  to  assist  the 
tremulous  gait  of  age. 

When  at  some  distance  from  the  multitude,  the 
old  man  turned  slowly  round,  displaying  a face  of 
antique  majesty,  rendered  doubly  venerable  by  the 
hoary  beard  that  descended  on  his  breast.  He 
made  a gesture  at  once  of  encouragement  and 
warning,  then  turned  again,  and  resumed  his  way. 

“Who  is  this  gray*patriarch ? ” asked  the  young 
men  of  their  sires. 

“Who  is  this  venerable  brother?”  asked  the  old 
men  among  themselves. 

But  none  could  make  reply.  The  fathers  of  the 
people,  those  of  fourscore  years  and  upwards,  were 
disturbed,  deeming  it  strange  that  they  should  for- 
get one  of  such  evident  authority,  whom  they  must 
have  known  in  their  early  days,  the  associate  of 
Winthrop,  and  all  the  old  councillors,  giving  laws, 
and  making  prayers,  and  leading  them  against 
the  savage.  The  elderly  men  ought  to  have  remem- 
bered him,  too,  with  locks  as  gray  in  their  youth 
as  their  own  were  now.  And  the  young!  How 
could  he  have  passed  so  utterly  from  their  memo- 
ries,—that  hoary  sire,  the  relic  of  long-departed 
times,  whose  awful  benediction  had  surely  been 
bestowed  on  their  uncovered  heads,  in  childhood  ? 

“Whence  did  he  come?  What  is  his  purpose? 
Who  can  this  old  man  be?  ” whispered  the  wonder- 
ing crowd. 

is  John  Winthrop  (1588-1649)  sailed  for  America  with  the  first  Massa- 
chusetts colonists  as  Governor  in  1630. 


5 

10 

15 

20 

25 


24 


TWICE-TOLD  TALES 


Meanwhile,  the  venerable  stranger,  staff  in  hand, 
was  pursuing  his  solitary  walk  along  the  centre  of 
the  street.  As  he  drew  near  the  advancing  soldiers, 
and  as  the  roll  of  their  drum  came  full  upon  his 
5 ear,  the  old  man  raised  himself  to  a loftier  mien, 
while  the  decrepitude  of  age  seemed  to  fall  from  his 
shoulders,  leaving  him  in  gray  but  unbroken  dig- 
nity. Now,  he  marched  onward  with  a warrior’s 
step,  keeping  time  to  the  military  music.  Thus  the 
10  aged  form  advanced  on  one  side,  and  the  whole 
parade  of  soldiers  and  magistrates  on  the  other, 
till,  when  scarcely  twenty  yards  remained  between, 
the  old  man  grasped  his  staff  by  the  middle,  and 
held  it  before  him  like  a leader’s  truncheon. 

15  “ Stand ! ” cried  he. 

The  eye,  the  face,  and  attitude  of  command ; the 
solemn,  yet  warlike  peal  of  that  voice,  fit  either  to 
rule  a host  in  the  battle-field  or  be  raised  to  God  in 
prayer,  were  irresistible.  At  the  old  man’s  word 
20  and  outstretched  arm,  the  roll  of  the  drum  was 
hushed  at  once,  and  the  advancing  line  stood  still. 
A tremulous  enthusiasm  seized  upon  the  multitude. 
That  stately  form,  combining  the  leader  and  the 
saint,  so  gray,  so  dimly  seen,  in  such  an  ancient 
25  garb,  could  only  belong  to  some  old  champion  of 
the  righteous  cause,  whom  the  oppressor’s  drum 
had  summoned  from  his  grave.  They  raised  a shout 
of  awe  and  exultation,  and  looked  for  the  deliver- 
ance of  New  England. 

30  The  Governor,  and  the  gentlemen  of  his  party, 
perceiving  themselves  brought  to  an  unexpected 


THE  GRAY  CHAMPION 


25 


stand,  rode  hastily  forward,  as  if  they  would  have 
pressed  their  snorting  and  affrighted  horses  right 
against  the  hoary  apparition.  He,  however, 
blenched  not  a step,  but  glancing  his  severe  eye 
round  the  group,  which  half  encompassed  him,  at  5 
last  bent  it  sternly  on  Sir  Edmund  Andros.  One 
would  have  thought  that  the  dark  old  man 
wTas  chief  ruler  there,  and  that  the  Governor 
and  Council,  with  soldiers  at  their  back,  represent- 
ing the  whole  power  and  authority  of  the  Crown,  10 
had  no  alternative  but  obedience. 

“ What  does  this  old  fellow  here?  ” cried  Edward 
Randolph,  fiercely.  “On,  Sir  Edmund ! Bid  the 
soldiers  forward,  and  give  the  dotard  the  same 
choice  that  you  give  all  his  countrymen, — to  stand  15 
aside  or  be  trampled  on !” 

“ Nay,  nay,  let  us  show  respect  to  the  good  grand- 
sire,”  said  Bullivant,  laughing.  “See you  not,  he 
is  some  old  round-headed  dignitary,  who  hath  lain 
asleep  these  thirty  years,  and  knows  nothing  of  20 
the  change  of  times  ? Doubtless,  he  thinks  to  put 
us  down  with  a proclamation  in  Old  Noil’s  name!” 

“Are  you  mad,  old  man?”  demanded  Sir  Ed- 
mund Andros,  in  loud  and  harsh  tones.  “How 
dare  you  stay  the  march  of  King  James’s  Gov- 25 
ernor?  ” 


19  Round-headed.  The  Puritans  with  their  closely  clipped  hair  were 
derisively  called  “Round-heads”  by  the  Cavaliers,  who  wore  their  hair 
in  long  love  locks  over  their  shoulders. 

22  Old  Noll.  A contemptuous  epithet  applied  to  Oliver  Cromwell  by 
the  Cavaliers. 


26 


TWICE-TOLD  TALES 


“ I have  stayed  the  march  of  a king  himself,  ere 
now,”  replied  the  gray  figure,  with  stern  compo- 
sure. “I  am  here,  Sir  Governor,  because  the  cry 
of  an  oppressed  people  hath  disturbed  me  in  my 
5 secret  place ; and  beseeching  this  favor  earnestly  of 
the  Lord,  it  was  vouchsafed  me  to  appear  once  again 
on  earth,  in  the  good  old  cause  of  his  saints.  And 
what  speak  ye  of  James?  There  is  no  longer  a 
Popish  tyrant  on  the  throne  of  England,  and  by 
10  to-morrow  noon  his  name  shall  be  a by-word  in 
this  very  street,  where  ye  would  make  it  a word  of 
terror.  Back,  thou  that  wast  a Governor,  back ! 
With  this  night  thy  power  is  ended, — to-morrow, 
the  prison ! — back,  lest  I foretell  the  scaffold ! ” 

15  The  people  had  been  drawing  nearer  and  nearer, 
and  drinking  in  the  words  of  their  champion,  who 
spoke  in  accents  long  disused,  like  one  unaccus- 
tomed to  converse,  except  with  the  dead  of  many 
years  ago.  But  his  voice  stirred  their  souls.  They 
20  confronted  the  soldiers,  not  wholly  without  arms, 
and  ready  to  convert  the  very  stones  of  the  street 
into  deadly  weapons.  Sir  Edmund  Andros  looked 
a/t  the  old  man;  then  he  cast  his  hard  and  cruel 
eye  over  the  multitude,  and  beheld  them  burning 
25  with  that  lurid  wrath,  so  difficult  to  kindle  or  to 
quench ; and  again  he  fixed  his  gaze  on  the  aged 
form,  which  stood  obscurely  in  an  open  space,  where 
neither  friend  nor  foe  had  thrust  himself.  What 
were  his  thoughts,  he  uttered  no  word  which  might 
30  discover.  But  whether  the  oppressor  were  over- 
awed by  the  Gray  Champion’s  look,  or  perceived 


THE  GRAY  CHAMPION 


27 


his  peril  in  the  threatening  attitude  of  the  people, 
it  is  certain  that  he  gave  back,  and  ordered  his  sol- 
diers to  commence  a slow  and  guarded  retreat. 
Before  another  sunset,  the  Governor,  and  all  that 
rode  so  proudly  with  him,  were  prisoners,  and  long 
ere  it  was  known  that  James  had  abdicated,  King 
William  wTas  proclaimed  throughout  New  England, 

But  where  was  the  Gray  Champion  ? Some  re- 
ported, that  when  the  troops  had  gone  from  King- 
Street,  and  the  people  were  thronging  tumultu- 
ously in  their  rear,  Bradstreet,  the  aged  Governor, 
was  seen  to  embrace  a form  more  aged  than  his 
own.  Others  soberly  affirmed,  that  while  they 
marvelled  at  the  venerable  grandeur  of  his  aspect, 
the  old  man  had  faded  from  their  eyes,  melting 
slowly  into  the  hues  of  twilight,  till,  where  he  stood, 
there  was  an  empty  space,  but  all  agreed  that  the 
hoary  shape  was  gone.  The  men  of  that  generation 
watched  for  his  reappearance,  in  sunshine  and  in 
twilight,  but  never  saw  him  more,  nor  knew  when 
his  funeral  passed,  nor  where  his  gravestone  was. 

And  who  was  the  Gray  Champion?  Perhaps 
his  name  might  be  found  in  the  records  of  that  stern 
Court  of  Justice,  which  passed  a sentence,  too 
mighty  for  the  age,  but  glorious  in  all  after  times, 
for  its  humbling  lesson  to  the  monarch  and  its  high 
example  to  the  subject.  I have  heard,  that  when- 
ever the  descendants  of  the  Puritans  are  to  show 

24  Court  of  Justice.  The  Court  which  tried  Charles  I.  Two  of  the 
members  of  this  Court,  Goffe  and  Wlialley,  fled  to  America  at  the  Kes- 
toration  and  remained  there  in  hiding.  Goffe  reappeared  at  the  Indian 
attack  on  Hadley  in  1675,  and  helped  repulse  the  savages. 


5 

10 

15 

20 

25 


28 


TWICE-TOLD  TALES 


the  spirit  of  their  sires,  the  old  man  appears  again. 
When  eighty  years  had  passed,  he  walked  once 
more  in  King  Street.  Five  years  later,  in  the  twi- 
light of  an  April  morning,  he  stood  on  the  green, 
5 beside  the  meeting-house,  at  Lexington,  where  now 
the  obelisk  of  granite,  with  a slab  of  slate  inlaid, 
commemorates  the  first  fallen  of  the  Revolution. 
And  when  our  fathers  were  toiling  at  the  breast- 
work on  Bunker’s  Hill,  all  through  that  night  the 
io  old  warrior  walked  his  rounds.  Long,  long  may 
it  be,  ere  he  comes  again ! His  hour  is  one  of  dark- 
ness, and  adversity,  and  peril.  But  should  domes- 
tic tyranny  oppress  us,  or  the  invader’s  step 
pollute  our  soil,  still  may  the  Gray  Champion  come, 
15  for  he  is  the  type  of  New  England’s  hereditary 
spirit,  and  his  shadowy  march,  on  the  eve  of  dan- 
ger, must  ever  be  the  pledge  that  New  England’s 
sons  will  vindicate  their  ancestry. 

2 When  eighty  years  had  passed.  At  the  time  of  the  Boston  Mas- 
sacre. 


THE  MINISTER’S  BLACK  VEIL 

A PARABLE 1 

The  sexton  stood  in  the  porch  of  Milford  meet- 
ing-house, pulling  lustily  at  the  bell-rope.  The  old 
people  of  the  village  came  stooping  along  the 
street.  Children  with  bright  faces  tripped  merrily 
beside  their  parents,  or  mimicked  a graver  gait,  in  5 
.the  conscious  dignity  of  their  Sunday  clothes. 
Spruce  bachelors  looked -sidelong  at  the  pretty 
maidens,  and  fancied  that  the  Sabbath  sunshine 
made  them  prettier  than  on  week-days.  When  the 
throng  had  mostly  streamed  into  the  porch,  the  10 
sexton  began  to  toll  the  bell,  keeping  his  eye  on  the 
Reverend  Mr.  Hooper’s  door.  The  first  glimpse  of 
the  clergyman’s  figure  was  the  signal  for  the  bell 
to  cease  its  summons. 

“But  what  has  good  Parson  Hooper  got  uponi5 
his  face?”  cried  the  sexton,  in  astonishment. 

All  within  hearing  immediately  turned  about, 
and  beheld  the  semblance  of  Mr.  Hooper,  pacing 
slowly  his  meditative  way  towards  the  meeting- 
house. With  one  accord  they  started,  expressing  20 

> Another  clergyman  in  New  England,  Mr.  Joseph  Moody,  of  York, 
-nine,  who  died  about  eighty  years  since,  made  himself  remarkable 
by  the  same  eccentricity  that  is  here  related  of  the  Reverend  Mr. 
nooper.  In  his  case,  however,  the  symbol  had  a different  import.  In 
early  ife  hie  had  aceidentahy  killed  a beloved  friend:  and  from  that 
day  till  the  hour  of  his  own  death,  he  hid  his  face  from  men. 

29 


30 


TWICE-TOLD  TALES 


more  wonder  than  if  some  strange  minister  were 
coming  to  dust  the  cushions  of  Mr.  Hooper’s 
pulpit. 

“ Are  you  sure  it  is  our  parson?  ” inquired  Good- 
5 man  Gray  of  the  sexton. 

“Of  a certainty  it  is  good  Mr.  Hooper,”  replied 
the  sexton.  “ He  was  to  have  exchanged  pulpits 
with  Parson  Shute,  of  Westbury;  but  Parson 
Shute  sent  to  excuse  himself  yesterday,  being  to 
10  preach  a funeral  sermon.” 

The  cause  of  so  much  amazement  may  appear 
sufficiently  slight.  Mr.  Hooper,  a gentlemanly  per- 
son, of  about  thirty,  though  still  a bachelor,  was 
dressed  with  due  clerical  neatness,  as  if  a careful 
15  wife  had  starched  his  band  and  brushed  the  weekly 
dust  from  his  Sunday’s  garb.  There  was  but  one 
thing  remarkable  in  his  appearance.  Swathed 
about  his  forehead,  and  hanging  down  over  his 
face  so  low  as  to  be  shaken  by  his  breath,  Mr.  ; 
20  Hooper  had  on  a black  veil.  On  a nearer  view,  it  i 
seemed  to  consist  of  two  folds  of  crape,  which  en-  ■ 
tirely  concealed  his  features,  except  the  mouth  and 
chin,  but  probably  did  not  intercept  his  sight,  far- 
ther than  to  give  a darkened  aspect  to  all  living 
25  and  inanimate  things.  With  this  gloomy  shade 
before  him,  good  Mr.  Hooper  walked  onward,  at  a 
slow  and  quiet  pace,  stooping  somewhat,  and  look- 
ing on  the  ground,  as  is  customary  with  abstracted 
men,  yet  nodding  kindly  to  those  of  his  parishion- 
3oers  who  still  waited  on  the  meeting-house  steps. 
But  so  wonder-struck  were  they,  that  his  greeting 
hardly  met  with  a return. 


THE  MINISTER’S  BLACK  VEIL 


31 


“I  can’t  really  feel  as  if  good  Mr.  Hooper’s  face 
was  behind  that  piece  of  crape,”  said  the  sexton. 

“I  don’t  like  it,”  muttered  an  old  woman,  as 
she  hobbled  into  the  meeting-house.  “He  has 
changed  himself  into  something  awful,  only  by  5 
hiding  his  face.” 

“ Our  parson  has  gone  mad ! ” cried  Goodman 
Gray,  following  him  across  the  threshold. 

A rumor  of  some  unaccountable  phenomenon 
had  preceded  Mr.  Hooper  into  the  meeting-house,  10 
and  set  all  the  congregation  astir.  Few  could  re- 
frain from  twisting  their  heads  towards  the  door ; 
many  stood  upright,  and  turned  directly  about; 
while  several  little  boys  clambered  upon  the  seats, 
and  came  down  again  with  a terrible  racket.  There  15 
was  a general  bustle,  a rustling  of  the  women’s 
gowns  and  shuffling  of  the  men’s  feet,  greatly  at 
variance  with  that  hushed  repose  which  should  at- 
tend the  entrance  of  the  minister.  But  Mr.  Hooper 
appeared  not  to  notice  the  perturbation  of  his  peo-  20 
pie.  He  entered  with  an  almost  noiseless  step,  bent 
his  head  mildly  to  the  pews  on  each  side,  and  bowed 
as  he  passed  his  oldest  parishioner,  a white-haired 
great-grandsire,  who  occupied  an  arm-chair  in  the 
centre  of  the  aisle.  It  was  strange  to  observe  how  25 
slowly  this  venerable  man  became  conscious  of 
something  singular  in  the  appearance  of  his  pastor. 
He  seemed  not  fully  to  partake  of  the  prevailing 
wonder,  till  Mr.  Hooper  had  ascended  the  stairs, 
and  showed  himself  in  the  pulpit,  face  to  face  with  30 
his  congregation,  except  for  the  black  veil.  That 


32 


TWICE-TOLD  TALES 


mysterious  emblem  was  never  once  withdrawn. 
It  shook  with  his  measured  breath  as  it  gave  out 
the  psalm ; it  threw  its  obscurity  between  him!  and 
the  holy  page,  as  he  read  the  Scriptures ; and  while 
5 he  prayed,  the  veil  lay  heavily  on  his  uplifted  coun- 
tenance. Did  he  seek  to  hide  it  from  the  dread  Be- 
ing whom  he  was  addressing? 

Such  was  the  effect  of  this  simple  piece  of  crape, 
that  more  than  one  woman  of  delicate  nerves  was 
10 forced  to  leave  the  meeting-house.  Yet  perhaps 
the  pale-faced  congregation  was  almost  as  fearful 
a sight  to  the  minister,  as  his  black  veil  to  them. 

Mr.  Hooper  had  the  reputation  of  a good  preach- 
er, but  not  an  energetic  one : he  strove  to  win  his 
1 5 people  heavenward  by  mild,  persuasive  influences, 
rather  than  to  drive  them  thither  by  the  thunders 
of  the  Word.  The  sermon  which  he  now  delivered 
was  marked  by  the  same  characteristics  of  style 
and  manner  as  the  general  series  of  his  pulpit  ora- 
20  tory . But  there  was  something,  either  in  the  sen- 
timent of  the  discourse  itself,  or  in  the  imagination 
of  the  auditors,  which  made  it  greatly  the  most 
powerful  effort  that  they  had  ever  heard  from  their 
pastor’s  lips.  It  was  tinged,  rather  more  darkly 
25  than  usual,  with  the  gentle  gloom  of  Mr.  Hooper’s 
temperament.  The  subject  had  reference  to  secret 
sin,  and  those  sad  mysteries  which  we  hide  from 
our  nearest  and  dearest,  and  would  fain  conceal 
from  our  own  consciousness,  even  forgetting  that 
30 the  Omniscient  can  detect  them.  A subtle  power 
was  breathed  into  his  words.  Each  member  of  the 


THE  MINISTER'S  BLACK  VEIL 


33 


congregation,  the  most  innocent  girl  and  the  man 
of  hardened  breast,  felt  as  if  the  preacher  had  crept 
upon  them,  behind  his  awful  veil,  and  discovered 
their  hoarded  iniquity  of  deed  or  thought.  Many 
spread  their  clasped  hands  on  their  bosoms.  There  5 
was  nothing  terrible  in  what  Mr.  Hooper  said ; at 
least,  no  violence ; and  yet,  with  every  tremor  of 
his  melancholy  voice,  the  hearers  quaked.  An  un- 
sought pathos  came  hand  in  hand  with  awe.  So 
sensible  were  the  audience  of  some  unwonted  attri- 10 
bute  in  their  minister,  that  they  longed  for  a 
breath  of  wind  to  blow  aside  the  veil,  almost  be- 
lieving that  a stranger’s  visage  would  be  discov- 
ered, though  the  form,  gesture  and  voice  were  those 
of  Mr.  Hooper.  15 

At  the  close  of  the  services,  the  people  hurried 
out  with  indecorous  confusion,  eager  to  communi- 
cate their  pent-up  amazement,  and  conscious  of 
lighter  spirits,  the  moment  they  lost  sight  of  the 
black  veil.  Some  gathered  in  little  circles,  hud- 20 
died  closely  together,  with  their  mouths  all  whis- 
pering in  the  centre ; some  went  homeward  alone, 
wrapped  in  silent  meditation ; some  talked  loudly, 
and  profaned  the  Sabbath  day  with  ostentatious 
laughter.  A few  shook  their  sagacious  heads,  in- 25 
timating  that  they  could  penetrate  the  mystery; 
while  one  or  two  affirmed  that  there  was  no  mys- 
tery at  all,  but  only  that  Mr.  Hooper’s  eyes  were 
so  weakened  by  the  midnight  lamp,  as  to  require 
a shade.  After  a brief  interval,  forth  came  good  30 
Mr.  Hooper  also,  in  the  rear  of  his  flock.  Turning 


34 


TWICE-TOLD  TALES 


his  veiled  face  from  one  group  to  another,  he  paid 
due  reverence  to  the  hoary  heads,  saluted  the  mid- 
dle-aged with  kind  dignity,  as  their  friend  and 
spiritual  guide,  greeted  the  young  with  mingled 
5 authority  and  love,  and  laid  his  hands  on 
the  little  ‘children’s  heads  to  bless  them.  Such 
was  always  his  custom  on  the  Sabbath  day. 
Strange  and  bewildered  looks  repaid  him  for  his 
courtesy.  None,  as  on  former  occasions,  aspired 
10  to  the  honor  of  walking  by  their  pastor’s  side. 
Old  Squire  Saunders,  doubtless  by  an  accidental 
lapse  of  memory,  neglected  to  invite  Mr.  Hooper 
to  his  table,  where  the  good  clergyman  had  been 
wont  to  bless  the  food,  almost  every  Sunday  since 
15  his  settlement.  He  returned,  therefore,  to  the  par- 
sonage, and,  at  the  moment  of  closing  the  door, 
was  observed  to  look  back  upon  the  people,  all  of 
whom  had  their  eyes  fixed  upon  the  minister.  A 
sad  smile  gleamed  faintly  from  beneath  the  black 
20  veil,  and  flickered  about  his  mouth,  glimmering  as 
he  disappeared. 

“How  strange,”  said  a lady,  “that  a simple 
black  veil,  such  as  any  woman  might  wear  on  her 
bonnet,  should  become  such  a terrible  thing  on  Mr. 
25  Hooper’s  face ! ” 

“ Something  must  surely  be  amiss  with  Mr.  Hoop- 
er’s intellects,”  observed  her  husband  , the  physician 
of  the  village.  “But  the  strangest  part  of  the 
affair  is  the  effect  of  this  vagary,  even  on  a sober- 
30  minded  man  like  myself.  The  black  veil,  though  it 
covers  only  our  pastor’s  face,  throws  its  influence 


THE  MINISTER'S  BLACK  VEIL  35 

over  his  whole  person,  and  makes  him  ghost-like 
from  head  to  foot.  Do  yon  not  feel  it  so? ” 

“ Truly  do  I,”  replied  the  lady ; “ and  I would  not 
be  alone  with  him  for  the  world.  I wonder  he  is 
not  afraid  to  be  alone  with  himself!  ” 

“Men  sometimes  are  so,”  said  her  husband. 

The  afternoon  service  was  attended  with  similar 
circumstances.  At  its  conclusion,  the  bell  tolled 
for  the  funeral  of  a young  lady.  The  relatives  and 
friends  were  assembled  in  the  house,  and  the  more 
distant  acquaintances  stood  about  the  door,  speak- 
ing of  the  good  qualities  of  the  deceased,  when 
their  talk  was  interrupted  by  the  appearance  of 
Mr.  Hooper,  still  covered  with  his  black  veil.  It 
was  now  an  appropriate  emblem.  The  clergyman 
stepped  into  the  room  where  the  corpse  was  laid, 
and  bent  over  the  coffin,  to  take  a last  farewell  of 
his  deceased  parishioner.  As  he  stooped,  the  veil 
hung  straight  down  from  his  forehead,  so  that,  if 
her  eyelids  had  not  been  closed  forever,  the  dead 
maiden  might  have  seen  his  face.  Could  Mr.  Hoop- 
er be  fearful  of  her  glance,  that  he  so  hastily  caught 
back  the  black  veil?  A person,  who  watched  the 
interview  between  the  dead  and  living,  scrupled  not 
to  affirm,  that,  at  the  instant  when  the  clergy- 
man’s features  were  disclosed,  the  corpse  had 
slightly  shuddered,  rustling  the  shroud  and  muslin 
cap,  though  the  countenance  retained  the  compo- 
sure of  death.  A superstitious  old  woman  was  the 
only  witness  of  this  prodigy.  From  the  coffin  Mr. 
Hooper  passed  into  the  chamber  of  the  mourners, 


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36 


TWICE-TOLD  TALES 


and  thence  to  the  head  of  the  staircase,  to  make 
the  funeral  prayer.  It  was  a tender  and  heart- 
dissolving  prayer,  full  of  sorrow,  yet  so  imbued 
. with  celestial  hopes,  that  the  music  of  a heavenly 
5 harp,  swept  by  the  fingers  of  the  dead,  seemed 
faintly  to  be  heard  among  the  saddest  accents  ol 
the  minister.  The  people  trembled,  though  they 
but  darkly  understood  him  when  he  prayed  that 
they,  and  himself,  and  all  the  mortal  race,  might 
10  be  ready,  as  he  trusted  this  young  maiden  had 
been,  for  the  dreadful  hour  that  should  snatch  the 
veil  from  their  faces.  The  bearers  went  heavily 
forth,  and  the  mourners  followed,  saddening  all  the 
street,  with  the  dead  before  them,  and  Mr.  Hooper 
15  in  his  black  veil  behind. 

“ Why  do  you  look  back?  ” said  one  in  the  pro- 
cession to  his  partner. 

“ I had  a fancy,”  replied  she,  “that  the  minister 
and  the  maiden’s  spirit  were  walking  hand  in 
20  hand.” 

“And  so  had  I,  at  the  same  moment,”  said  the 
other. 

That  night,  the  handsomest  couple  in  Milford 
village  were  to  be  joined  in  wedlock.  Though  reck- 
25  oned  a melancholy  man,  Mr.  Hooper  had  a placid 
cheerfulness  for  such  occasions,  which  often  excited 
a sympathetic  smile,  where  livelier  merriment  would 
have  been  thrown  away.  There  was  no  quality  of 
his  disposition  which  made  him  more  beloved  than 
30  this.  The  company  at  the  wedding  a waited  his 
arrival  with  impatience,  trusting  that  the  strange 


THE  MINISTER'S  BLACK  VEIL  37 

awe,  which  had  gathered  over  him  throughout  the 
day,  would  now  be  dispelled.  But  such  was  not 
the  result.  When  Mr.  Hooper  came,  the  first  thing 
that  their  eyes  rested  on  was  the  same  horrible 
black  veil,  which  had  added  deeper  gloom  to  the 
funeral,  and  could  portend  nothing  but  evil  to  the 
wedding.  Such  was  its  immediate  effect  on  the 
guests,  that  a cloud  seemed  to  have  rolled  duskily 
from  beneath  the  black  crape,  and  dimmed  the  light 
of  the  candles.  The  bridal  pair  stood  up  before 
the  minister.  But  the  bride’s  cold  fingers  quivered 
in  the  tremulous  hand  of  the  bridegroom,  and  her 
death-like  paleness  caused  a whisper  that  the  maid- 
en who  had  been  buried  a few  hours  before  was 
come  from  her  grave  to  be  married.  If  ever  an- 
other wedding  was  so  dismal,  it  was  that  famous 
one  where  they  tolled  the  wedding  knell.  After  per- 
forming the  ceremony,  Mr.  Hooper  raised  a glass 
of  wine  to  his  lips,  wishing  happiness  to  the  new 
married  couple,  in  a strain  of  mild  pleasantry,  that 
ought  to  have  brightened  the  features  of  the  guests, 
like  a cheerful  gleam  from  the  hearth.  At  that  in- 
stant, catching  a glimpse  of  his  figure  in  the  look- 
ing-glass, the  black  veil  involved  his  own  spirit 
in  the  horror  with  which  it  overwhelmed  all  others. 
His  frame  shuddered, — his  lips  grew  wdiite,— he  spilt 
the  untasted  wine  upon  the  carpet, — and  rushed 


17  The  Wedding  Knell.  Another  gloomv  story  of  Hawthorne’s  bears 
this  title.  It  describes  the  wedding  of  an  elderly  couple  at  which  the 
bridegroom  appeared  clad  in  a shroud,  while  the  church  bell  tolled  as 
for  a funeral. 


5 

10 

15 

20 

25 


38 


TWICE-TOLD  TALES 


forth  into  the  darkness.  For  the  Earth,  too,  had 
on  her  Black  Veil. 

The  next  day,  the  whole  village  of  Milford  talked 
of  little  else  than  Parson  Hooper’s  black  veil. 

5 That,  and  the  mystery  concealed  behind  it,  supplied 
a topic  for  discussion  between  acquaintances  meet- 
ing in  the  street  and  good  women  gossiping  at 
their  open  windows.  It  was  the  first  item  of  news 
that  the  tavern-keeper  told  to  his  guests.  The 
10  children  babbled  of  it  on  their  way  to  school.  One 
imitative  little  imp  covered  his  face  with  an  old 
black  handkerchief,  thereby  so  affrighting  his  play- 
mates that  the  panic  seized  himself,  and  he  well- 
nigh  lost  his  wits  by  his  own  waggery. 

15  It  was  remarkable  that,  of  all  the  busybodies  and 
impertinent  people  in  the  parish,  not  one  ventured 
to  put  the  plain  question  to  Mr.  Hooper,  wherefore 
he  did  this  thing.  Hitherto,  whenever  there  ap- 
peared the  slightest  call  for  such  interference,  he 
20  had  never  lacked  advisers,  nor  shown  himself  ad- 
verse to  be  guided  by  their  judgment.  If  he  erred 
at  all,  it  was  by  so  painful  a degree  of  self-distrust, 
that  even  the  mildest  censure  would  lead  him  to 
consider  an  indifferent  action  as  a crime.  Yet, 
25  though  so  well  acquainted  with  this  amiable  weak- 
ness, no  individual  among  his  parishioners  chose  to 
make  the  black  veil  a subject  of  friendly  remons- 
trance. There  was  a feeling  of  dread , neither  plainly 
confessed  nor  carefully  concealed,  which  caused  each 
30  to  shift  the  responsibility  upon  another,  till  at 
length  it  was  found  expedient  to  send  a deputation 


THE  MINISTER’S  BLACK  VEIL 


39 


of  the  church,  in  order  to  deal  with  Mr.  Hooper 
about  the  mystery,  before  it  should  grow  into  a 
scandal.  Never  did  an  embassy  so  ill  discharge  its 
duties.  The  minister  received  them  with  friendly 
courtesy,  but  became  silent,  after  they  were  seated, 5 
leaving  to  his  visitors  the  whole  burden  of  intro- 
ducing their  important  business.  The  topic,  it 
might  be  supposed,  was  obvious  enough.  There 
was  the  black  veil,  swathed  round  Mr.  Hooper’s 
forehead,  and  concealing  every  feature  above  hisio 
placid  mouth,  on  which,  at  times,  they  could  per- 
ceive the  glimmering  of  a melancholy  smile.  But 
that  piece  of  crape,  to  their  imagination,  seemed 
to  hang  down  before  his  heart,  the  symbol  of  a 
fearful  secret  between  him  and  them.  Were  the  15 
veil  but  cast  aside,  they  might  speak  freely  of  it, 
but  not  till  then.  Thus  they  sat  a considerable 
time,  speechless,  confused,  and  shrinking  uneasily 
from  Mr.  Hooper’s  eye,  which  they  felt  to  be  fixed 
upon  them  with  an  invisible  glance.  Finally,  the  20 
deputies  returned  abashed  to  their  constituents, 
pronouncing  the  matter  too  weighty  to  be  handled, 
except  by  a council  of  the  churches,  if,  indeed,  it 
might  not  require  a general  synod. 

But  there  was  one  person  in  the  village,  unap-  25 
palled  by  the  awe  with  which  the  black  veil  had 
impressed  all  beside  herself.  When  the  deputies  re- 
turned without  an  explanation, or  even  venturing  to 
demand  one,  she,  with  the  calm  energy  of  her  char- 
acter, determined  to  chase  away  the  strange  cloud  30 
that  appeared  to  be  settling  round  Mr.  Hooper, 


40 


TWICE-TOLD  TALES 


every  moment  more  darkly  than  before.  As  his 
plighted  wife,  it  should  be  her  privilege  to  know 
what  the  black  veil  concealed.  At  the  minister’s 
first  visit,  therefore,  she  entered  upon  the  subject, 
5 with  a direct  simplicity  which  made  the  task  easier 
both  for  him  and  her.  After  he  had  seated  himself, 
she  fixed  her  eyes  steadfastly  upon  the  veil,  but 
could  discern  nothing  of  the  dreadful  gloom  that 
had  so  overawed  the  multitude ; it  was  but  a dou- 
10  ble  fold  of  crape,  hanging  down  from  his  forehead 
to  his  mouth,  and  slightly  stirring  with  his  breath. 

“No,”  said  she  aloud,  and  smiling,  “there  is 
nothing  terrible  in  this  piece  of  crape,  except  that 
it  hides  a face  which  I am  always  glad  to  look 
15  upon.  Come,  good  sir,  let  the  sun  shine  from  be- 
hind the  cloud.  First  lay  aside  your  black  veil : 
then  tell  me  why  you  put  it  on.” 

Mr.  Hooper’s  smile  glimmered  faintly. 

“There  is  an  hour  to  come,”  said  he,  “when  all 
20  of  us  shall  cast  aside  our  veils.  Take  it  not  amiss, 
beloved  friend,  if  I wear  this  piece  of  crape  till 
then.” 

“ Your  words  are  a mystery  too,”  returned  the 
young  lady.  “Takeaway  the  veil  from  them,  at 
25  least.” 

“Elizabeth,  I will,”  said  he,  “so  far  as  my  vow 
may  suffer  me.  Know,  then,  this  veil  is  a type  and 
a symbol,  and  I am  bound  to  wear  it  ever,  both  in 
light  and  darkness,  in  solitude  and  before  the  gaze 
30  of  multitudes,  and  as  with  strangers,  so  with  my 
familiar  friends.  No  mortal  eye  will  see  it  with- 


THE  MINISTEWS  BLACK  VEIL 


41 


drawn.  This  dismal  shade  must  separate  me  from 
the  world : even  you,  Elizabeth,  can  never  come 
behind  it ! ” 

“ What  grievous  affliction  hath  befallen  you,” 
she  earnestly  inquired,  “that  you  should  thus 
darken  your  eyes  forever?  ” 

“If  it  be  a sign  of  mourning,”  replied  Mr.  Hoop- 
er, “ I,  perhaps,  like  most  other  mortals,  have  sor- 
rows dark  enough  to  be  typified  by  a black  veil.” 

“ But  what  if  the  world  will  not  believe  that  it  is 
the  type  of  an  innocent  sorrow?  ’’urged  Elizabeth. 
“ Beloved  and  respected  as  you  are,  there  may  be 
whispers,  that  you  hide  your  face  under  the  con- 
sciousness of  secret  sin.  For  the  sake  of  your  holy 
office,  do  away  this  scandal ! ” 

The  color  rose  into  her  cheeks  as  she  intimated 
the  nature  of  the  rumors  that  were  already  abroad 
in  the  village.  But  Mr.  Hooper’s  mildness  did  not 
forsake  him.  He  even  smiled  again, — that  same 
sad  smile,  which  always  appeared  like  a faint  glim- 
mering of  light,  proceeding  from  the  obscurity 
beneath  the  veil. 

“If  I hide  my  face  for  sorrow,  there  is  cause 
enough,”  he  merely  replied;  “and  if  I cover  it  for 
secret  sin,  what  mortal  might  not  do  the  same?” 

And  with  this  gentle  but  unconquerable  obsti- 
nacy did  he  resist  all  her  entreaties.  At  length 
Elizabeth  sat  silent.  For  a few  moments  she 
appeared  lost  in  thought,  considering,  probably, 
what  new  methods  might  be  tried  to  withdraw 
her  lover  from  so  dark  a fantasy,  which,  if  it  had 


5 

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42 


TWICE-TOLD  TALES 


no  other  meaning,  was  perhaps  a symptom  of 
mental  disease.  Though  of  a firmer  character 
than  his  own,  the  tears  rolled  down  her  cheeks. 
But,  in  an  instant,  as  it  were,  a new  feeling  took 
5 the  place  of  sorrow ; her  eyes  were  fixed  insensibly 
on  the  black  veil,  when,  like  a sudden  twilight  in 
the  air,  its  terrors  fell  around  her.  She  arose,  and 
stood  trembling  before  him. 

“And  do  you  feel  it  then  at  last?”  said  he, 
10  mournfully. 

She  made  no  reply,  but  covered  her  eyes  with  her 
hand,  and  turned  to  leave  the  room.  He  rushed 
forward  and  caught  her  arm. 

“Have  patience  with  me,  Elizabeth!”  cried  he, 
15  passionately.  “ Do  not  desert  me,  though  this  veil 
must  be  between  us  here  on  earth.  Be  mine,  and 
hereafter  there  shall  be  no  veil  over  my  face,  no 
darkness  between  our  souls ! It  is  but  a mortal 
veil, — it  is  not  for  eternity ! Oh ! you  know  not  how 
20  lonely  I am,  and  how  frightened,  to  be  alone  be- 
hind my  black  veil!  Do  not  leave  me  in  this  mis- 
erable obscurity  forever!  ” 

“ Lift  the  veil  but  once,  and  look  me  in  the  face,” 
said  she. 

25  “Never!  It  cannot  be !”  replied  Mr.  Hooper. 

“Then,  farewell!  ” said  Elizabeth. 

She  withdrew  her  arm  from  his  grasp,  and  slowly 
departed,  pausing  at  the  door,  to  give  one  long, 
shuddering  gaze,  that  seemed  almost  to  penetrate 
30  the  mystery  of  the  black  veil.  But,  even  amid  his 
grief,  Mr.  Hooper  smiled  to  think  that  only  a ma- 


THE  MINISTER’S  BLACK  VEIL 


43 


terial  emblem  bad  separated  bim  from  happiness, 
though  the  horrors  which  it  shadowed  forth  must 
be  drawn  darkly  between  the  fondest  of  lovers. 

From  that  time  no  attempts  were  made  to  re- 
move Mr.  Hooper’s  black  veil,  or  by  a direct  appeal, 
to  discover  the  secret  which  it  was  supposed  to 
hide.  By  persons  who  claimed  a superiority  to 
popular  prejudice,  it  was  reckoned  merely  an  ec- 
centric whim,  such  as  often  mingles  with  the  sober 
actions  of  men  otherwise  rational,  and  tinges  them 
all  with  its  own  semblance  of  insanity.  But  with 
the  multitude,  good  Mr.  Hooper  was  irreparably 
a bugbear.  He  could  not  walk  the  street  with  any 
peace  of  mind,  so  conscious  was  he  that  the  gentle 
and  timid  would  turn  aside  to  avoid  him,  and  that 
others  would  make  it  a point  of  hardihood  to 
throw  themselves  in  his  way.  The  impertinence  of 
the  latter  class  compelled  him  to  give  up  his  cus- 
tomary walk,  at  sunset,  to  the  burial-ground ; for 
when  he  leaned  pensively  over  the  gate,  there  would 
always  be  faces  behind  the  gravestones,  peeping  at 
his  black  veil.  A fable  went  the  rounds,  that  the 
stare  of  the  dead  people  drove  him  thence.  It 
grieved  him,  to  the  very  depth  of  his  kind  heart, 
to  observe  how  the  children  fled  from  his  approach, 
breaking  up  their  merriest  sports,  while  his  melan- 
choly figure  was  yet  afar  off.  Their  instinctive 
dread  caused  him  to  feel,  more  strangely  than 
aught  else,  that  a preternatural  horror  was  inter- 
woven with  the  threads  of  the  black  crape.  In 
truth,  his  own  antipathy  to  the  veil  was  known  to 


5 

10 

15 

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25 

30 


44 


TWICE-TOLD  TALES 


be  so  great,  that  he  never  willingly  passed  before  a 
mirror,  nor  stooped  to  drink  at  a still  fountain, 
lest,  in  its  peaceful  bosom,  he  should  be  affrighted 
by  himself.  This  was  what  gave  plausibility  to 
5 the  whispers,  that  Mr.  Hooper’s  conscience  tortured 
him  for  some  great  crime  too  horrible  to  be  entirely 
concealed,  or  otherwise  than  so  obscurely  intima- 
ted. Thus,  from  beneath  the  black  veil,  there  rolled 
a cloud  into  the  sunshine,  an  ambiguity  of  sin  or 
10  sorrow,  which  enveloped  the  poor  minister,  so  that 
love  or  sympathy  could  never  reach  him.  It  was 
said,  that  ghost  and  fiend  consorted  with  him 
there.  With  self-shudderings  and  outward  terrors, 
he  walked  continually  in  its  shadow,  groping  darkly 
15  within  his  own  soul,  or  gazing  through  a medium 
that  saddened  the  whole  world.  Even  the  lawless 
wind,  it  was  believed,  respected  his  dreadful  secret, 
and  never  blew  aside  the  veil.  But  still  good  Mr. 
Hooper  sadly  smiled  at  the  pale  visages  of  the 
20  worldly  throng  as  he  passed  by. 

Among  all  its  bad  influences,  the  black  veil  had 
the  one  desirable  effect,  of  making  its  wearer  a very 
efficient  clergyman.  By  the  aid  of  his  mysterious 
, emblem — for  there  was  no  other  apparent  cause — 
25 he  became  a man  of  awful  power,  over  souls  that 
were  in  agony  for  sin.  His  converts  always  re- 
garded him  with  a dread  peculiar  to  themselves, 
affirming,  though  but  figuratively,  that,  before  he 
brought  them  to  celestial  light,  they  had  been  with 
30  him  behind  the  black  veil.  Its  gloom,  indeed,  en- 
abled him  to  sympathize  with  all  dark  affections. 


THE  MINISTER'S  BLACK  VEIL 


45 


laying  sinners  cried  aloud  for  Mr.  Hooper,  and 
would  not  yield  their  breath  till  he  appeared; 
though  ever,  as  he  stooped  to  whisper  consolation, 
they  shuddered  at  the  veiled  face  so  near  their  own. 
Such  were  the  terrors  of  the  black  veil,  even  when  5 
Death  had  bared  his  visage ! Strangers  came  long 
distances  to  attend  service  at  his  church,  with  the 
mere  idle  purpose  of  gazing  at  his  figure,  because  it 
was  forbidden  them  to  behold  his  face.  But  many 
were  made  to  quake  ere  they  departed ! Once,  ig 
during  Governor  Belcher’s  administration,  Mr. 
Hooper  was  appointed  to  preach  the  election 
sermon.  Covered  with  his  black  veil,  he  stood 
before  the  chief  magistrate,  the  council,  and  the 
representatives,  and  wrought  so  deep  an  impres-15 
sion,  that  the  legislative  measures  of  that  year 
were  characterized  by  all  the  gloom  and  piety  of 
our  earliest  ancestral  sway. 

In  this  manner  Mr.  Hooper  spent  a long  life,  irre- 
proachable in  outward  act,  yet  shrouded  in  dismal  20 
suspicions;  kind  and  loving,  though  unloved,  and 
dimly  feared ; a man  apart  from  men,  shunned  in 
their  health  and  joy,  but  ever  summoned  to  their 
aid  in  mortal  anguish.  As  years  wore  on,  shed- 
ding their  snows  above  his  sable  veil,  he  acquired  a 25 
name  throughout  the  New  England  churches,  and 
they  called  him  Father  Hooper.  Nearly  all  his 
parishioners,  who  were  of  mature  age  when  he  was 
settled,  had  been  borne  away  by  many  a funeral  : 
he  had  one  congregation  in  the  church,  and  a more^ 
crowded  one  in  the  churchyard ; and  having 


46 


TWICE-TOLD  TALES 


wrought  so  late  into  the  evening,  and  done  his 
work  so  well,  it  was  now  good  Father  Hooper’s 
turn  to  rest. 

Several  persons  were  visible  by  the  shaded  candle- 
5 light,  in  the  death  chamber  of  the  old  clergyman. 
Natural  connections  he  had  none.  But  there  was 
the  decorously  grave,  though  unmoved  physician, 
seeking  only  to  mitigate  the  last  pangs  of  the 
patient  whom  he  could  not  save.  There  were  the 
10  deacons,  and  other  eminently  pious  members  of  his 
church.  There,  also,  was  the  Beverend  Mr.  Clark, 
of  Westbury,  a young  and  zealous  divine,  who  had 
ridden  in  haste  to  pray  by  the  bedside  of  the  expir- 
ing minister.  There  was  the  nurse,  no  hired  liand- 
15  maiden  of  death,  but  one  whose  calm  affection  had 
endured  thus  long  in  secrecy,  in  solitude,  amid  the 
chill  of  age,  and  would  not  perish,  even  at  the  dying 
hour.  Who,  but  Elizabeth!  And  there  lay  the 
hoary  head  of  good  Father  Hooper  upon  the 
20  death-pillow,  with  the  black  veil  still  swathed 
about  his  brow,  and  reaching  down  over  his  face, 
so  that  each  more  difficult  gasp  of  his  faint  breath 
caused  it  to  stir.  All  through  life  that  piece  of 
crape  had  hung  between  him  and  the  world  : it  had 
25  separated  him  from  cheerful  brotherhood  and 
woman’s  love,  and  kept  him  in  that  saddest  of  all 
prisons,  his  own  heart;  and  still  it  lay  upon  his 
face,  as  if  to  deepen  the  gloom  of  his  darksome 
chamber,  and  shade  him  from  the  sunshine  of 
30  eternity. 


THE  MINISTER'S  BLACK  VEIL  47 

For  some  time  preAuous,  his  mind  had  been  con- 
fused, wavering  doubtfully  between  the  past  and 
the  present,  and  hovering  forward,  as  it  were,  at 
intervals,  into  the  indistinctness  of  the  world  to 
come.  There  had  been  feverish  turns,  which  tossed  5 
him  from  side  to  side,  and  wore  away  what  little 
strength  he  had.  But  in  his  most  convulsive 
struggles,  and  in  the  wildest  vagaries  of  his  intel- 
lect, when  no  other  thought  retained  its  sober 
influence,  he  still  showed  an  awful  solicitude  lestio 
the  black  veil  should  slip  aside.  Even  if  his  be- 
wildered soul  could  have  forgotten,  there  was  a 
faithful  woman  at  his  pillow,  who,  with  averted 
eyes,  would  have  covered  that  aged  face,  which  she 
had  last  beheld  in  the  comeliness  of  manhood.  At  15 
length  the  death-stricken  old  man  lay  quietly  in 
the  torpor  of  mental  and  bodily  exhaustion,  with 
an  imperceptible  pulse,  and  breath  that  grew 
fainter  and  fainter,  except  when  a long,  deep,  and 
irregular  inspiration  seemed  to  prelude  the  flight  20 
of  his  spirit. 

The  minister  of  Westbury  approached  the  bed- 
side. 

“ Venerable  Father  Hooper/’  said  he,  “the 
moment  of  your  release  is  at  hand.  Are  you  ready  ^ 
for  the  lifting  of  the  veil,  that  shuts  in  time  from 
eternity?  ” 

Father  Hooper  at  first  replied  merely  by  a feeble 
motion  of  his  head ; then,  apprehensive,  perhaps, 
that  his  meaning  might  be  doubtful,  he  exerted  30 
himself  to  speak. 


48 


TWICE-TOLD  TALES 


“ Yea,”  said  he,  in  faint  accents,  “ mj  sonl  hath 
a patient  weariness  until  that  veil  be  lifted.” 

“And  is  it  fitting,”  resumed  the  Reverend  Mr. 
Clark,  “that  a man  so  given  to  prayer,  of  such  a 
5 blameless  example,  holy  in  deed  and  thought,  so 
far  as  mortal  judgment  may  pronounce, — is  it  fit- 
ting that  a father  in  the  church  should  leave  a 
shadow  on  his  memory,  that  may  seem  to  blacken 
a life  so  pure?  I pray  you,  my  venerable  brother, 
10  let  not  this  thing  be ! Suffer  us  to  be  gladdened  by 
your  triumphant  aspect,  as  you  go  to  your  re- 
ward. Before  the  veil  of  eternity  be  lifted,  let  me 
cast  aside  this  black  veil  from  your  face.” 

And  thus  speaking,  the  Rev.  Mr.  Clark  bent  for- 
15  ward  to  reveal  the  mystery  of  so  many  years.  But, 
exerting  a sudden  energy,  that  made  all  the  be- 
holders stand  aghast,  Father  Hooper  snatched 
both  his  hands  from  beneath  the  bedclothes,  and 
pressed  them  strongly  on  the  black  veil,  resolute 
20  to  struggle,  if  the  minister  of  Westbury  would  con- 
tend with  a dying  man. 

“Never ! ” cried  the  veiled  clergyman.  “ On  earth, 
never ! ” 

“Dark  old  man!  ” exclaimed  the  affrighted  min- 
2oister,  “with  what  horrible  crime  upon  your  soul 
are  you  now  passing  to  the  judgment?  ” 

Father  Hooper’s  breath  heaved ; it  rattled  in  his 
throat;  but,  with  a mighty  effort,  grasping  for- 
ward with  his  hands,  he  caught  hold  of  life,  and 
30  held  it  back  till  he  should  speak.  He  even  raised 
himself  in  bed ; and  there  he  sat,  shivering  with  the 


THE  MINISTER'S  BLACK  VEIL 


49 


arms  of  death  around  him,  while  the  black  veil 
hung  down,  awful,  at  that  last  moment,  in  the 
gathered  terrors  of  a lifetime.  And  yet  the  faint, 
sad  smile,  so  often  there,  now  seemed  to  glimmer 
from  its  obscurity,  and  linger  on  Father  Hooper’s 
lips. 

“Why  do  you  tremble  at  me  alone?”  cried  he, 
turning  his  veiled  face  round  the  circle  of  pale  spec- 
tators. “Tremble  also  at  each  other!  Have  men 
avoided  me,  and  women  shown  no  pity,  and  chil- 
dren screamed  and  fled,  only  for  my  black  veil? 
What,  but  the  mystery  which  it  obscurely  typifies, 
has  made  this  piece  of  crape  so  awful?  When  the 
friend  shows  his  inmost  heart  to  his  friend ; the 
lover  to  his  best  beloved  ; when  man  does  not 
vainly  shrink  from  the  eye  of  his  Creator,  loath- 
somely treasuring  up  the  secret  of  his  sin ; then 
deem  me  a monster,  for  the  symbol  beneath  which 
I have  lived,  and  die ! I look  around  me,  and,  lo ! 
on  every  visage  a Black  Veil ! ” 

While  his  auditors  shrank  from  one  another,  in 
mutual  affright,  Father  Hooper  fell  back  upon  his 
pillow,  a veiled  corpse,  with  a faint  smile  lingering 
on  the  lips.  Still  veiled,  they  laid  him  in  his  coffin, 
and  a veiled  corpse  they  bore  him  to  the  grave. 
The  grass  of  many  years  has  sprung  up  and  with- 
ered on  that  grave,  the  burial  stone  is  moss-grown, 
and  good  Mr.  Hooper’s  face  is  dust ; but  awful  is 
still  the  thought,  that  it  mouldered  beneath  tlie 
Black  Veil! 


5 

10 

15 

20 

25 

30 


THE  MAYPOLE  OF  MERRY  MOUNT 


There  is  an  admirable  foundation  for  a philosophic  romance,  in 
the  curious  history  of  the  early  settlement  of  Mount  Wollaston,  or 
Merry  Mount.  In  the  slight  sketch  here  attempted,  the  facts  record- 
ed on  the  grave  pages  of  our  New  England  annalists  have  wrought 
themselves,  almost  spontaneously,  into  a sort  of  allegory.  The 
masques,  mummeries,  and  festive  customs,  described  in  the  text 
are  in  accordance  with  the  manners  of  the  age.  Authority  on  these 
points  may  be  found  in  Strutt’s  Book  of  English  Sports  and  Pastimes. 

Bright  were  the  days  at  Merry  Mount,  when  the 
May-Pole  was  the  banner  staff  of  that  gay  colony! 
They  who  reared  it,  should  their  banner  be  tri- 
umphant, were  to  pour  sunshine  over  New  Eng- 
5 land’s  rugged  hills, and  scatter  flower-seeds  through- 
out the  soil.  Jollity  and  gloom  were  contending 
for  an  empire.  Midsummer  eve  had  come,  bringing 
deep  verdure  to  the  forest,  and  roses  in  her  lap,  of 
a more  vivid  hue  than  the  tender  buds  of  Spring. 
10  But  May,  or  her  mirthful  spirit,  dwelt  all  the  year 
round  at  Merry  Mount,  sporting  with  the  Summer 
months,  and  revelling  with  Autumn,  and  basking 
in  the  glow  of  Winter’s  fireside.  Through  a world 
of  toil  and  care  she  flitted  with  a dream-like  smile, 
15  and  came  hither  to  find  a home  among  the  light- 
some hearts  of  Merry  Mount. 

i^Merry  Mount.  A small  settlement  on  the  site  of  the  present  town 
of  Quincy,  Massachusetts,  composed  of  some  thirty  straggling  settlers 
who,  repelled  by  the  harshness  and  gloom  of  life  in  the  Puritan  settle- 
ments, led  a riotous  existence  at  Merry  Mount  until  the  scandal  was 
stamped  out  by  John  Endicott  in  1628. 


THE  MAY-POLE  OF  MERRY  MOUNT 


51 


Never  had  the  May-Pole  been  so  gayly  decked  as 
at  sunset  on  midsummer  eve.  This  venerated  em- 
blem was  a pine-tree,  which  had  preserved  the 
slender  grace  of  youth,  while  it  equaled  the  loftiest 
height  of  the  old  wood  monarchs.  From  its  top  5 
streamed  a silken  banner,  colored  like  the  rainbow. 
Down  nearly  to  the  ground,  the  pole  was  dressed 
with  birchen  boughs,  and  others  of  the  liveliest 
green,  and  some  with  silvery  leaves,  fastened  by 
ribbons  that  fluttered  in  fantastic  knots  of  twenty  10 
different  colors,  but  no  sad  ones.  Garden  flowers 
and  blossoms  of  the  wilderness  laughed  gladly  forth 
amid  the  verdure,  so  fresh  and  dewy,  that  they 
must  have  grown  by  magic  on  that  happy  pine- 
tree.  Where  this  green  and  flowery  splendor  termi-15 
nated,  the  shaft  of  the  May-Pole  was  staiued  with 
the  seven  brilliant  hues  of  the  banner  at  its  top. 
On  the  lowest  green  bough  hung  an  abundant 
wreath  of  roses,  some  that  had  been  gathered  in 
the  sunniest  spots  of  the  forest,  and  others,  of  still  20 
richer  blush,  which  the  colonists  had  reared  from 
English  seed.  0 people  of  the  Golden  Age,  the 
chief  of  your  husbandry  was  to  raise  flowers ! 

But  what  was  the  wild  throng  that  stood  hand 
in  hand  about  the  May-Pole?  It  could  not  be, 25 
that  the  fauns  and  nymphs,  when  driven  from  their 
classic  groves  and  homes  of  ancient  fable,  had 
sought  refuge,  as  all  the  persecuted  did,  in  the  fresh 
woods  of  the  West.  These  were  Gothic  monsters, 
though  perhaps  of  Grecian  ancestry.  On  the  30 
shoulders  of  a comely  youth  uprose  the  head  and 


52 


TWICE-TOLD  TALES 


branching  antlers  of  a stag;  a second,  human  in 
all  other  points,  had  the  grim  visage  of  a 
wolf;  a third,  still  with  the  trunk  and  limbs  of  a 
mortal  man,  showed  the  beard  and  horns  of  a ven- 
5 erable  he-goat.  There  was  the  likeness  of  a bear 
erect,  brute  in  all  but  his  hind  legs,  which  were 
adorned  with  pink  silk  stockings.  And  here  again, 
almost  as  wondrous,  stood  a real  bear  of  the  dark 
forest,  lending  each  of  his  fore-paws  to  the  grasp 
10  of  a human  hand,  and  as  ready  for  the  dance  as 
any  in  that  circle.  His  inferior  nature  rose  half- 
way, to  meet  his  companions  as  they  stooped. 
Other  faces  wore  the  similitude  of  man  or  woman, 
but  distorted  or  extravagant,  with  red  noses  pen- 
15  dulous  before  their  mouths,  which  seemed  of  awful 
depth,  and  stretched  from  ear  to  ear  in  an  eternal 
fit  of  laughter.  Here  might  be  seen  the  Salvage 
Man,  well  known  in  heraldry,  hairy  as  a baboon, 
and  girdled  with  green  leaves.  By  his  side,  a nobler 
20  figure,  but  still  a counterfeit,  appeared  an  Indian 
hunter,  with  feathery  crest  and  wampum  belt.  Many 
i of  this  strange  company  wore  foolscaps,  and  had 

17  Salvage  Man.  This  character,  which  is  that  of  a wild  or  savage 
man,  was  very  popular  in  the  mummeries  and  pageants  of  the  time, 
The  green  men  mentioned  below  were  almost  always  in  attendance  at 
the  popular  shows  and  were  originally  dressed  in  green  as  huntsmen. 
To  this  day  in  England  the  “ Green  Man  ” is  frequently  seen  depicted 
on  the  signboards  of  inns.  The  morris-dance  was  formerly  common 
in  England,  and  often  formed  a part  of  pageants  and  processions, 
especially  those  appropriated  to  the  celebration  of  the  May  games.  A 
hobby-horse  or  representation  of  a dragon,  with  Robin  Hood,  Maid 
Marian,  and  other  characters  supposed  to  have  been  the  companions 
of  the  famous  outlaw,  executed  the  dance  in  garments  adorned  with 
bells. 


THE  MA  Y-POLE  OF  MERRY  MO UNT  53 

little  bells  appended  to  their  garments,  tinkling 
with  a silvery  sound,  responsive  to  the  inaudible 
music  of  their  gleesome  spirits.  Some  youths  and 
maidens  were  of  soberer  garb,  yet  well  maintained 
their  places  in  the  irregular  throng,  by  the  expres- 
sion of  wild  revelry  upon  their  features.  Such  were 
the  colonists  of  Merry  Mount,  as  they  stood  in  the 
broad  smile  of  sunset,  round  their  venerated  May- 
Pole. 

Had  a wanderer,  bewildered  in  the  melancholy 
forest,  heard  their  mirth,  and  stolen  a half-af- 
frighted glance,  he  might  have  fancied  them  the 
crew  of  Comus,  some  already  tran  sformed  to  brutes, 
some  midway  between  man  and  beast,  and  the 
others  rioting  in  the  flow  of  tipsy  jollity  that  fore- 
ran the  change.  But  a band  of  Puritans,  who 
watched  the  scene,  invisible  themselves,  compared 
the  masques  to  those  devils  and  ruined  souls  with 
whom  their  superstition  peopled  the  black  wilder- 
ness. 

Within  the  ring  of  monsters  appeared  the  two 
airiest  forms  that  had  ever  trodden  on  any  more 
solid  footing  than  a purple  and  golden  cloud.  One 
was  a youth  in  glistening  apparel,  with  a scarf  of 
the  rainbow  pattern  crosswise  on  his  breast.  His 
right  hand  held  a gilded  staff,  the  ensign  of  high 
dignity  among  the  revelers,  and  his  left  grasped 

13  Comus.  In  classical  mythology,  Comus  was  the  presiding  genius 
of  banquets,  festive  scenes,  revelry,  and  all  joyous  pleasures  and  reck- 
less gayety.  Milton’s  Comus,  whom  Hawthorne  evidently  has  in  mind, 
was  a sort  of  male  Circe,  and  transformed  those  who  came  into  his 
power,  into  beasts  of  one  kind  or  another. 


5 

10 

15 

20 

25 


54 


TWICE-TOLD  TALES 


the  slender  fingers  of  a fair  maiden,  not  less  gaily 
decorated  than  himself.  Bright  roses  glowed  in 
contrast  with  the  dark  and  glossy  curls  of  each, 
and  were  scattered  round  their  feet,  or  had  sprung 
5 up  spontaneously  there.  Behind  this  lightsome 
couple,  so  close  to  the  May-Pole  that  its  boughs 
shaded  his  jovial  face,  stood  the  figure  of  an  Eng- 
lish priest,  canonically  dressed,  yet  decked  with 
flowers,  in  heathen  fashion,  and  wearing  a chap- 
10  let  of  the  native  vine-leaves.  By  the  riot  of  his 
rolling  eye,  and  the  pagan  decorations  of  his  holy 
garb,  he  seemed  the  wildest  monster  there,  and  the 
very  Comus  of  the  crew. 

“Votaries  of  the  May-Pole,”  cried  the  flower- ( 
15 decked  priest,  “merrily,  all  day  long,  have  the 
woods  echoed  to  your  mirth.  But  be  this  your 
merriest  hour,  my  hearts!  Lo,  here  stand  the 
Lord  and  Lady  of  the  May,  whom  I,  a clerk  of  Ox- 
ford, and  high  priest  of  Merry  Mount,  am  presently 
20  to  join  in  holy  matrimony.  Up  with  your  nimble 
spirits,  ye  morrice-dancers,  green  men,  and  glee- 
maidens,  bears  and  wolves,  and  horned  gentlemen ! 
Come ; a chorus  now,  rich  with  the  old  mirth,  of 
Merry  England,  and  the  wilder  glee  of  this  fresh 
25 forest;  and  then  a dance,  to  show  the  youthful 
pair  what  life  is  made  of,  and  how  airily  they  should 
go  through  it!  All  ye  that  love  the  May-Pole, 
lend  your  voices  to  the  nuptial  song  of  the  Lord 
and  Lady  of  the  May ! ” 

30  This  wedlock  was  more  serious  than  most  affairs 
of  Merry  Mount,  where  jest  and  delusion,  trick  and 
fantasy,  kept  up  a continual  carnival.  The  Lord 


THE  MAY- POLE  OF  MERRY  MOUNT 


55 


and  Lady  of  the  May,  though  their  titles  must  be 
laid  down  at  sunset,  were  really  and  truly  to  be 
partners  for  the  dance  of  life,  beginning  the  meas- 
ure that  same  bright  eve.  The  wreath  of  roses, 
that  hung  from  the  lowest  green  bough  of  the  May- 
Pole,  had  been  twined  for  them,  and  would  be 
thrown  over  both  their  heads,  in  symbol  of  their 
flowery  union.  When  the  priest  had  spoken,  there- 
fore, a riotous  uproar  burst  from  the  rout  of  mon- 
strous figures. 

“ Begin  you  the  stave,  reverend  Sir/7  cried  they 
all;  “and  never  did  the  woods  ring  to  such  a merry 
peal,  as  we  of  the  May-Pole  shall  send  up ! 77 

Immediately  a prelude  of  pipe,  cithern,  and  viol, 
touched  with  practised  minstrelsy,  began  to  play 
from  a neighboring  thicket,  in  such  a mirthful 
cadence  that  the  boughs  of  the  May-Pole  quivered 
to  the  sound.  But  the  May  Lord,  he  of  the  gilded 
staff,  chancing  to  look  into  his  Lady’s  eyes,  was 
wonder-struck  at  the  almost  pensive  glance  that 
met  his  own. 

“Edith,  sweet  Lady  of  the  May,77  whispered  he 
reproachfully,  “is  yon  wreath  of  roses  a garland 
to  hang  above  our  graves,  that  you  look  so  sad? 
0 Edith,  this  is  our  golden  time ! Tarnish  it  not 
by  any  pensive  shadow  of  the  mind ; for  it  may  be 
that  nothing  of  futurity  will  be  brighter  than  the 
mere  remembrance  of  what  is  now  passing.77 

“That  was  the  very  thought  that  saddened  me! 
How  came  it  in  your  mind  too  ? 77  said  Edith,  in  a 
still  lower  tone  than  he;  for  it  was  high  treason  to 


5 

10 

15 

20 

25 

30 


56 


TWICE-TOLD  TALES 


be  sad  at  Merry  Mount.  “Therefore  do  I sigh 
amid  this  festive  music.  And  besides,  dear  Edgar, 
I struggle  as  with  a dream,  and  fancy  that  these 
shapes  of  our  jovial  friends  are  visionary,  and  their 
5 mirth  unreal,  and  that  we  are  no  true  Lord  and 
Lady  of  the  May.  What  is  the  mystery  in  my 
heart?  ” 

Just  then,  as  if  a spell  had  loosened  them,  down 
came  a little  shower  of  withering  rose-leaves  from 
10 the  May-Pole.  Alas,  for  the  young  lovers!  No 
sooner  had  their  hearts  glowed  with  real  passion, 
than  they  were  sensible  of  something  vague  and  un- 
substantial in  their  former  pleasures,  and  felt  a 
dreary  presentiment  of  inevitable  change.  From 
15  the  moment  that  they  truly  loved,  they  had  sub- 
jected themselves  to  earth’s  doom  of  care  and  sor- 
row and  troubled  joy,  and  had  no  more  a home  at 
Merry  Mount.  That  was  Edith’s  mystery.  Now 
leave  we  the  priest  to  marry  them,  and  the 
20  masquers  to  sport  round  the  May-Pole,  till  the 
last  sunbeam  be  withdrawn  from  its  summit,  and 
the  shadows  of  the  forest  mingle  gloomily  in  the 
dance.  Meanwhile,  we  may  discover  who  these  gay 
people  were. 

25  Two  hundred  years  ago,  and  more,  the  Old 
World  and  its  inhabitants  became  mutually  weary 
of  each  other.  Men  voyaged  by  thousands  to  the 
West;  some  to  barter  glass  beads,  and  such  like 
jewels,  for  the  furs  of  the  Indian  hunter ; some  to 
30 conquer  virgin  empires;  and  one  stern  band  to 
pray.  But  none  of  these  motives  had  much  weight 


THE  MAY-POLE  OF  MERRY  MOUNT 


57 


with  the  colonists  of  Merry  Mount.  Their  leaders 
were  men  who  had  sported  so  long  with  life,  that 
when  Thought  and  Wisdom  came,  even  these  un- 
welcome guests  were  led  astray  by  the  crowd  of 
vanities  which  they  should  have  put  to  flight.  Err-  6 
ing  Thought  and  perverted  Wisdom  were  made  to 
put  on  masques,  and  play  the  fool.  The  men  of 
whom  we  speak,  after  losing  the  heart’s  fresh 
gaiety,  imagined  a wild  philosophy  of  pleasure, 
and  came  hither  to  act  out  their  latest  day-dream.  10 
They  gathered  followers  from  all  that  giddy  tribe, 
whose  whole  life  is  like  the  festal  days  of  soberer 
men.  In  their  train  were  minstrels,  not  unknown 
in  London  streets ; wandering  players,  whose  thea- 
tres had  been  the  halls  of  noblemen,  mummers,  15 
rope-dancers,  and  mountebanks,  who  would  long 
be  missed  at  wakes,  church  ales,  and  fairs ; in  a 
word,  mirth-makers  of  every  sort,  such  as  abound- 
ed in  that  age,  but  now  began  to  be  discounten- 
anced by  the  rapid  growth  of  Puritanism.  Light  20 
had  their  footsteps  been  on  land,  and  as  lightly 
they  came  across  the  sea.  Many  had  been  mad- 
dened by  their  previous  troubles  into  a gay  de- 
spair ; others  were  as  madly  gay  in  the  flush  of 
youth,  like  the  May  Lord  and  his  Lady ; but  what-  25 
ever  might  be  the  quality  of  their  mirth,  old  and 
young  were  gay  at  Merry  Mount.  The  young 
deemed  themselves  happy.  The  elder  spirits,  if 
they  knew  that  mirth  was  but  the  counterfeit  of 
happiness,  yet  followed  the  false  shadow  wilfully,  30 
because  at  least  her  garments  glittered  brightest. 


58 


TWICE-TOLD  TALES 


Sworn  triflers  of  a lifetime,  they  would  not  venture 
among  the  sober  truths  of  life,  not  even  to  be  truly 
blest. 

All  the  hereditary  pastimes  of  Old  England  were 
5 transplanted  hither.  The  King  of  Christmas  was 
duly  crowned,  and  the  Lord  of  Misrule  bore  potent 
sway.  On  the  eve  of  Saint  John,  they  felled  whole 
acres  of  the  forest  to  make  bonfires,  and  danced  by 
the  blaze  all  night,  crowned  with  garlands,  and 
10  throwing  flowers  into  the  flame.  At  harvest-time, 
though  their  crop  was  of  the  smallest,  they  made 
an  image  with  the  sheaves  of  Indian  corn,  and 
wreathed  it  with  autumnal  garlands,  and  bore  it 
home  triumphantly.  But  what  chiefly  character- 
ized the  colonists  of  Merry  Mount  was  their  venera- 
tion for  the  May-Pole.  It  has  made  their  true 
history  a poet’s  tale.  Spring  decked  the  hallowed 
emblem  with  young  blossoms  and  fresh  green 
boughs;  Summer  brought  roses  of  the  deepest 
20 blush,  and  the  perfected  foliage  of  the  forest; 
Autumn  enriched  it  with  that  red  and  yellow 
gorgeousness,  which  converts  each  wildwood  leaf 
into  a painted  flower;  and  Winter  silvered  it  with 
sleet,  and  hung  it  round  with  icicles,  till  it  flashed 
25  in  the  cold  sunshine,  itself  a frozen  sunbeam.  Thus 
each  alternate  season  did  homage  to  the  May- 
Pole,  and  paid  it  a tribute  of  its  own  richest  splen- 
dor. Its  votaries  danced  round  it,  once,  at  least, 
in  every  month ; sometimes  they  called  it  their  reli- 
30gion,  or  their  altar;  but  always,  it  was  the  bauuer 
staff  of  Merry  Mount. 


THE  MAY-POLE  OF  MERRY  MOUNT 


59 


Unfortunately,  there  were  men  in  the  New  World 
of  a sterner  faith  than  these  May-Pole  worshippers. 
Not  far  from  Merry  Mount  was  a settlement  of 
Puritans,  most  dismal  wretches,  who  said  their 
prayers  before  daylight,  and  then  wrought  in  the  5 
forest  or  the  cornfield  till  evening  made  it  prayer- 
time  again.  Their  weapons  were  always  at  hand, 
to  shoot  down  the  straggling  savage.  When  they 
met  in  conclave,  it  was  never  to  keep  up  the  old 
English  mirth,  but  to  hear  sermons  three  hours  10 
long,  or  to  proclaim  bounties  on  the  heads  of 
wolves  and  the  scalps  of  Indians.  Their  festivals 
were  fast-days,  and  their  chief  pastime  the  singing 
of  psalms.  Woe  to  the  youth  or  maiden  who  did 
but  dream  of  a dance ! The  selectman  nodded  to  15 
the  constable ; and  there  sat  the  light-heeled 
reprobate  in  the  stocks;  or  if  he  danced,  it  was 
round  the  whipping-post,  which  might  be  termed 
the  Puritan  May-Pole. 

A party  of  these  grim  Puritans,  toiling  through  20 
the  difficult  woods,  each  with  a horse-load  of  iron 
armor  to  burthen  his  footsteps,  would  sometimes 
draw  near  the  sunny  precincts  of  Merry  Mount. 
There  were  the  silken  colonists,  sporting  round 
their  May-Pole ; perhaps  teaching  a bear  to  dance,  25 
or  striving  to  communicate  their  mirth  to  the 
grave  Indian ; or  masquerading  in  the  skins  of  deer 
and  wolves,  which  they  had  hunted  for  that  espe- 
cial purpose.  Often,  the  whole  colony  were  playing 
at  blind-man’s  buff,  magistrates  and  all  with  their  30 
eyes  bandaged,  except  a single  scape-goat,  whom 


60 


TWICE-TOLD  TALES 


the  blinded  sinners  pursued  by  the  tinkling  of  the 
bells  at  his  garments.  Once,  it  is  said,  they  were 
seen  following  a flower-decked  corpse,  with  merri- 
ment and  festive  music,  to  his  grave.  But  did  the 
5 dead  man  laugh?  In  their  quietest  times,  they 
sang  ballads  and  told  tales,  for  the  edification  of 
their  pious  visitors ; or  perplexed  them  with  jug- 
gling tricks ; or  grinned  at  them  through  horse- 
collars;  and  when  sport  itself  grew  wearisome,  they 
10  made  game  of  their  own  stupidity,  and  began  a 
yawning  match.  At  the  very  least  of  these  enor- 
mities, the  men  of  iron  shook  their  heads  and 
frowned  so  darkly,  that  the  revelers  looked  up, 
imagining  that  a momentary  cloud  had  overcast 
15  the  sunshine,  which  was  to  be  perpetual  there.  On 
the  other  hand,  the  Puritans  affirmed,  that,  when 
a psalm  was  pealing  from  their  place  of  worship, 
the  echo  which  the  forest  sent  them  back  seemed 
often  like  the  chorus  of  a jolly  catch,  closing  with 
20  a roar  of  laughter.  Who  but  the  fiend,  and  his 
bond-slaves,  the  crew  of  Merry  Mount,  had  thus 
disturbed  them  ? In  due  time,  a feud  arose,  stern 
and  bitter  on  one  side,  and  as  serious  on  the 
other  as  anything  could  be  among  such  light  spirits 
25  as  had  sworn  allegiance  to  the  May-Pole.  The 
future  complexion  of  New  England  was  involved  in 
this  important  quarrel.  Should  the  grizzly  saints 
establish  their  jurisdiction  over  the  gay  sinners, 
then  would  their  spirits  darken  all  the  clime,  and 
30  make  it  a land  of  clouded  visages,  of  hard  toil,  of 
sermon  and  psalm  for  ever.  But  should  the  ban- 


THE  MAY-POLE  OF  MEBBY  MOUNT 


61 


ner-staff  of  Merry  Mount  be  fortunate,  sunshine 
would  break  upon  the  hills  and  flowers  would 
beautify  the  forest,  and  late  posterity  do  homage 
to  the  May-Pole. 

After  these  authentic  passages  from  history,  we  5 
return  to  the  nuptials  of  the  Lord  and  Lady  of  the 
May.  Alas ! we  have  delayed  too  long,  and  must 
darken  our  tale  too  suddenly.  As  we  glance  again 
at  the  May-Pole,  a solitary  sunbeam  is  fading 
from  the  summit,  and  leaves  only  a faint,  golden  10 
tinge,  blended  with  the  hues  of  the  rainbow  ban- 
ner. Even  that  dim  light  is  now  withdrawn,  relin- 
quishing the  whole  domain  of  Merry  Mount  to  the 
evening  gloom,  which  has  rushed  so  instantane- 
ously from  the  black  surrounding  woods.  But  15 
some  of  these  black  shadows  have  rushed  forth  in 
human  shape. 

Yes ; with  the  setting  sun,  the  last  day  of  mirth 
had  passed  from  Merry  Mount.  The  ring  of  gay 
masquers  was  disordered  and  broken;  the  stag 20 
lowered  his  antlers  in  dismay ; the  wolf  grew  weak- 
er than  a lamb ; the  bells  of  the  morrice-dancers 
tinkled  writh  tremulous  affright.  The  Puritans  had 
played  a characteristic  part  in  the  May-Pole  mum- 
meries. Their  darksome  figures  were  intermixed  25 
with  the  wild  shapes  of  their  foes,  and  made  the 
scene  a picture  of  the  moment,  when  waking 
thoughts  start  up  amid  the  scattered  fantasies  of 
a dream.  The  leader  of  the  hostile  party  stood  in 
the  centre  of  the  circle,  while  the  rout  of  monsters  30 
cowrered  around  him,  like  evil  spirits  in  the  pres- 


62 


TWICE-TOLD  TALES 


ence  of  a dread  magician.  No  fantastic  foolery 
could  look  him  in  the  face.  So  stern  was  the  energy 
of  his  aspect,  that  the  whole  man,  visage,  frame, 
and  soul,  seemed  wrought  of  iron,  gifted  with  life 
5 and  thought,  yet  all  of  one  substance  with  his  head- 
piece  and  breast-plate.  It  was  the  Puritan  of  Puri- 
tans; it  was  Endicott  himself! 

“ Stand  off,  priest  of  Baal !”  said  he,  with  a grim 
frown,  and  laying  no  reverent  hand  upon  the  sur- 
10  plice.  “ I know  thee,  Blackstone ! Thou  art  the 
man  who  couldst  not  abide  the  rule  even  of  thine 
own  corrupted  church,  and  hast  come  hither  to 
preach  iniquity,  and  to  give  example  of  it  in  thy 
life.  But  now  shall  it  be  seen  that  the  Lord  hath 
15  sanctified  this  wilderness  for  his  peculiar  people. 
Woe  unto  them  that  would  defile  it!  And  first, 
for  this  flower-decked  abomination,  the  altar  of 
thy  worship ! ” 

And  with  his  keen  sword  Endicott  assaulted  the 
20  hallowed  May-Pole.  Nor  long  did  it  resist  his  arm. 
It  groaned  with  a dismal  sound ; it  showered 
leaves  and  rosebuds  upon  the  remorseless  enthu- 
siast; and  finally,  with  all  its  green  boughs,  and 
ribbons,  and  flowers,  symbolic  of  departed  pleas- 
25  ures,  down  fell  the  banner-staff  of  Merry  Mount. 
As  it  sank,  tradition  says,  the  evening  sky  grew 
darker,  and  the  woods  threw  forth  a more  sombre 
shadow. 

io Author's  Note.  Did  Governor  ~ Endicott  speak  less  positively  we 
should  suspect  a mistake  here.  The  Kev.  Mr.  Blackstone,  though  an 
eccentric,  is  not  known  to  have  been  an  immoral  man.  We  rather 
doubt  his  identity  with  the  priest  of  Merry  Mount. 


THE  MAY-POLE  OF  MERRY  MOUNT 


63 


“There,”  cried  En dicott,  looking  triumphantly 
on  his  work,— “ there  lies  the  only  May-Pole  in  New 
England ! The  thought  is  strong  within  me,  that, 
by  its  fall,  is  shadowed  forth  the  fate  of  light  and 
idle  mirth-makers,  amongst  us  and  our  posterity.  5 
Amen,  saith  John  Endicott.” 

“ Amen ! ” echoed  his  followers. 

But  the  votaries  of  the  May-Pole  gave  one  groan 
for  their  idol.  At  the  sound,  the  Puritan  leader 
glanced  at  the  crew  of  Comus,  each  a figure  ofio 
broad  mirth,  yet,  at  this  moment,  strangely  ex- 
pressive of  sorrow  and  dismay. 

“Valiant  captain,”  quoth  Peter  Palfrey,  the 
Ancient  of  the  band,  “what  order  shall  be  taken 
with  the  prisoners?  ” 15 

“I  thought  not  to  repent  me  of  cutting  down  a 
Mav-Pole,”  replied  Endicott,  “yet  now  I could  find 
in  my  heart  to  plant  it  again,  and  give  each  of 
these  bestial  pagans  one  other  dance  round  their 
idol.  It  would  have  served  rarely  for  a whipping- 20 
post!  ” 

“But  there  are  pinetrees  enow,”  suggested  the 
lieutenant. 

“True,  good  Ancient,”  said  the  leader.  “Where- 
fore, bind  the  heathen  crew,  and  bestow  on  them  a 25 
small  matter  of  stripes  apiece,  as  earnest  of  our 
future  justice.  Set  some  of  the  rogues  in  the  stocks 
to  rest  themselves,  so  soon  as  Providence  shall 
bring  us  to  one  of  our  own  well-ordered  settle- 
ments, where  such  accommodations  may  be  found.  30 


14  Ancient.  An  obsolete  military  title  corresponding  to  “ Ensign.5 


04 


TWICE-TOLD  TALES 


Further  penalties,  such  as  branding  and  cropping 
of  ears,  shall  be  thought  of  hereafter.” 

“How  many  stripes  for  the  priest ?”  inquired 
Ancient  Palfrey. 

5 “None  as  yet,”  answered  Endicott,  bending  his 
iron  frown  upon  the  culprit.  “ It  must  be  for  the 
Great  and  General  Court  to  determine  whether 
stripes  and  long  imprisonment,  and  other  grievous 
penalty,  may  atone  for  his  transgressions.  Let 
10  him  look  to  himself!  For  such  as  violate  our  civil 
order,  it  may  be  permitted  us  to  show  mercy. 
But  woe  to  the  wretch  that  troubleth  our  reli- 
gion ! ” 

“And  this  dancing  bear,”  resumed  the  officer. 
15  “Must  he  share  the  stripes  of  his  fellows?  ” 

“Shoot  him  through  the  head!”  said  the 
energetic  Puritan.  “I  suspect  witchcraft  in  the 
beast.” 

“Here  be  a couple  of  shining  ones,”  continued 
20  Peter  Palfrey,  pointing  his  weapon  at  the  Lord  and 
Lady  of  the  May.  “ They  seem  to  be  of  high  sta- 
tion among  these  misdoers.  Methinks  their  dignity 
will  not  be  fitted  with  less  than  a double  share  of 
stripes.” 

25  Endicott  rested  on  his  sword,  and  closely  sur- 
veyed the  dress  and  aspect  of  the  hapless  pair. 
There  they  stood,  pale,  downcast,  and  apprehen- 
sive. Yet  there  was  an  air  of  mutual  support,  and 
of  pure  affection,  seeking  aid  and  giving  it,  that 
30  showed  them  to  be  man  and  wife,  with  the  sanc- 
tion of  a priest  upon  their  love.  The  youth,  in  the 


THE  MAY-POLE  OF  MEBBY  MOUNT  65 


peril  of  the  moment,  had  dropped  his  gilded  staff, 
and  thrown  his  arm  about  the  Lady  of  the  May, 
who  leaned  against  his  breast,  too  lightly  to  bur- 
then him,  but  with  weight  enough  to  express  that 
their  destinies  were  linked  together,  for  good  or  5 
evil.  They  looked  first  at  each  other,  and  then 
into  the  grim  captain’s  face.  There  they  stood,  in 
the  first  hour  of  wedlock,  while  the  idle  pleasures, 
of  which  their  companions  were  the  emblems,  had 
given  place  to  the  sternest  cares  of  life,  personified  10 
by  the  dark  Puritans.  But  never  had  their  youth- 
ful beauty  seemed  so  pure  and  high,  as  when  its 
glow  was  chastened  by  adversity. 

“Youth,”  said  Endicott,  “ye  stand  in  an  evil 
case,  thou  and  thy  maiden  wife.  Make  ready  pres- 15 
ently ; for  I am  minded  that  ye  shall  both  have  a 
token  to  remember  your  wedding-day ! ” 

“Stern  man,”  cried  the  May  Lord,  “how  can  I 
move  thee?  Were  the  means  at  hand,  I would  re- 
sist to  the  death.  Being  powerless,  I entreat! 20 
Do  with  me  as  thou  wilt,  but  let  Edith  go  un- 
touched ! ” 

“Not  so,”  replied  the  immitigable  zealot.  “We 
are  not  wont  to  show  an  idle  courtesy  to  that  sex, 
which  requireth  the  stricter  discipline.  What  say-  25 
est  thou,  maid?  Shall  thy  silken  bridegroom 
suffer  thy  share  of  the  penalty,  besides  his  own?  ” 

“Be  it  death,”  said  Edith,  “and  lay  it  all  on 
me!” 

Truly,  as  Endicotthad  said,  the  poor  lovers  stood  30 
in  a woful  case.  Their  foes  were  triumphant,  their 


66 


TWICE-TOLD  TALES 


friends  captive  and  abased,  their  home  desolate, 
the  benighted  wilderness  around  them,  and  a rig- 
orous destiny,  in  the  shape  of  the  Puritan  leader, 
their  only  guide.  Yet  the  deepening  twilight  could 
5 not  altogether  conceal  that  the  iron  man  was  soft- 
ened ; he  smiled  at  the  fair  spectacle  of  early  love ; 
he  almost  sighed  for  the  inevitable  blight  of  early 
hopes. 

“The  troubles  of  life  have  come  hastily  on  this 
10 young  couple,”  observed  Endicott.  “We  will  see 
how  they  comport  themselves  under  their  present 
trials,  ere  we  burthen  them  with  greater.  If,  among 
the  spoil,  there  be  any  garments  of  a more  decent 
fashion,  let  them  be  put  upon  this  May  Lord  and 
15  his  Lady,  instead  of  their  glistening  vanities. 
Look  to  it,  some  of  you.” 

“And  shall  not  the  youth’s  hair  be  cut?  ” asked 
Peter  Palfrey,  looking  with  abhorrence  at  the  love- 
lock and  long  glossy  curls  of  the  young  man. 

20  “Crop  it  forthwith,  and  that  in  the  true  pump- 
kin-shell fashion,”  answered  the  captain.  “Then 
bring  them  along  with  us,  but  more  gently  than 
their  fellows.  There  be  qualities  in  the  youth,  which 
may  make  him  valiant  to  fight,  and  sober  to  toil, 
25  and  pious  to  pray;  and  in  the  maiden,  that  may 
fit  her  to  become  a mother  in  our  Israel,  bringing 
up  babes  in  better  nurture  than  her  own  hath  been. 
Nor  think  ye,  young  ones,  that  they  are  the  happi- 
est, even  in  our  lifetime  of  a moment,  who  misspend 
30  it  in  dancing  round  a May-Pole ! ” 


THE  MAY-POLE  OF  MERRY  MOUNT  67 


And  Endicott,  the  severest  Puritan  of  all  who 
laid  the  rock-foundation  of  New  England,  lifted  the 
wreath  of  roses  from  the  ruin  of  the  May-Pole,  and 
threw  it,  with  his  own  gauntleted  hand,  over  the 
heads  of  the  Lord  and  Lady  of  the  May.  It  was  a 5 
deed  of  prophecy.  As  the  moral  gloom  of  the 
world  overpowers  all  systematic  gaiety,  even  so 
was  their  home  of  wild  mirth  made  desolate  amid 
the  sad  forest.  They  returned  to  it  no  more.  But, 
as  their  flowery  garland  was  -wreathed  of  the  10 
brightest  roses  that  had  grown  there,  so,  in  the  tie 
that  united  them,  were  intertwined  all  the  purest 
and  best  of  their  early  joys.  They  went  heaven- 
ward, supporting  each  other  along  the  difficult 
path  which  it  was  their  lot  to  tread,  and  never  15 
wasted  one  regretful  thought  on  the  vanities  of 
Merry  Mount. 


LEGENDS  OF  THE  PROVINCE  HOUSE 


HOWE’S  MASQUERADE 

One  afternoon  last  summer,  while  walking  along 
Washington  Street,  my  eye  was  attracted  by  a 
sign-board  protruding  over  a narrow  archway 
nearly  opposite  the  Old  South  Church.  The  sign 
5 represented  the  front  of  a stately  edifice  which  was 
designated  as  the  “ Old  Province  House,  kept  by 
Thomas  Waite.”  I was  glad  to  be  thus  reminded 
of  a purpose,  long  entertained,  of  visiting  and 
rambling  over  the  mansion  of  the  old  royal  gov- 
ernors of  Massachusetts,  and,  entering  the  arched 
passage  which  penetrated  through  the  middle  of  a 
brick  row  of  shops,  a few  steps  transported  me 
from  the  busy  heart  of  modern  Boston  into  a 
small  and  secluded  courtyard.  One  side  of  this 
15  space  was  occupied  by  the  square  front  of  the 
Province  House,  three  stories  high  and  surmount- 
ed by  a cupola,  on  the  top  of  which  a gilded  India, n 
was  discernible,  with  his  bow  bent  and  his  arrow 
on  the  string,  as  if  aiming  at  the  weathercock  on 
20  the  spire  of  the  Old  South . The  figure  has  kept  this 
attitude  for  seventy  years  or  more,  ever  since  good 
Deacon  Drowne,  a cunning  carver  of  wood,  first 
stationed  him  on  his  long  sentinel’s  watch  over 
the  city.  68 


HOWE’S  MASQUERADE 


69 


The  Province  House  is  constructed  of  brick, 
which  seems  recently  to  have  been  overlaid  with  a 
coat  of  light-colored  paint.  A flight  of  red  free- 
stone steps  fenced  in  by  a balustrade  of  curiously 
wrought  iron  ascends  from  the  court-yard  to  the  5 
spacious  porch,  over  which  is  a balcony  with  an 
iron  balustrade  of  similar  pattern  and  workman- 
ship to  that  beneath.  These  letters  and  figures 
— “16  P.  S.  79” — are  wrought  into  the  ironwork 
of  the  balcony,  and  probably  express  the  date  of10 
the  edifice,  with  the  initials  of  its  founder’s  name. 

A wide  door  with  double  leaves  admitted  me  into 
the  hall  or  entry,  on  the  right  of  which  is  the  en- 
trance to  the  bar-room.  It  was  in  this  apart- 
ment, I presume,  that  the  ancient  governors  held  is 
their  levees  with  vice-regal  pomp,  surrounded  by 
the  military  men,  the  counsellors,  the  judges,  and 
other  officers  of  the  Crown,  while  all  the  loyalty  of 
the  Province  thronged  to  do  them  honor.  But 
the  room  in  its  present  condition  cannot  boast  20 
even  of  faded  magnificence.  The  panelled  wainscot 
is  covered  with  dingy  paint  and  acquires  a duskier 
hue  from  the  deep  shadow  into  which  the  Province 
House  is  thrown  by  the  brick  block  that  shuts  it 
in  from  Washington  Street.  A ray  of  sunshine  25 
never  visits  this  apartment  any  more  than  the 
glare  of  the  festal  torches  which  have  been  extin- 
guished from  the  era  of  the  Bevolution.  The  most 
venerable  and  ornamental  object  is  a chimney- 
piece  set  round  with  Dutch  tiles  of  blue-figured  30 
china,  representing  scenes  from  Scripture,  and,  for 


70 


TWICE-TOLD  TALES 


aught  I know,  the  lady  of  Pownall  or  Bernard  may 
have  sat  beside  this  fireplace  and  told  her  children 
the  story  of  each  blue  tile.  A bar  in  modern  style, 
well  replenished  with  decanters,  bottles,  cigar-boxes 
5 and  network  bags  of  lemons,  and  provided  with  a 
beer-pump  and  a soda-fount,  extends  along  one 
side  of  the  room. 

At  my  entrance  an  elderly  person  was  smacking 
his  lips  with  a zest  which  satisfied  me  that  the 
10  cellars  of  the  Province  House  still  hold  good  liquor, 
though  doubtless  of  other  vintages  than  were 
quaffed  by  the  old  governors.  After  sipping  a 
glass  of  port-sangaree  prepared  by  the  skilful 
hands  of  Mr.  Thomas  Waite,  I besought  that 
15  worthy  successor  and  representative  of  so  many 
historic  personages  to  conduct  me  over  their  time- 
honored  mansion.  He  readily  complied,  but,  to 
confess  the  truth,  I was  forced  to  draw  strenuously 
upon  my  imagination  in  order  to  find  aught  that 
20  was  interesting  in  a house  which,  without  its 
historic  associations,  would  have  seemed  merely 
such  a tavern  as  is  usually  favored  by  the  custom 
of  decent  city  boarders  and  old-fashioned  country 
gentlemen.  The  chambers,  which  were  probably 
25  spacious  in  former  times,  are  now  cut  up  by  par- 
titions and  subdivided  into  little  nooks,  each  af- 
fording scanty  room  for  the  narrow  bed  and  chair 
and  dressing-table  of  a single  lodger.  The  great 
staircase,  however,  may  be  termed,  without  much 
30  hyperbole,  a feature  of  grandeur  and  magnificence. 
It  winds  through  the  midst  of  the  house  by  flights 


HOWE’S  MASQtTEBADE 


71 


of  broad  steps,  each  flight  terminating  in  a square 
landing-place,  whence  the  ascent  is  continued 
toward  the  cupola.  A carved  balustrade,  freshly 
painted  in  the  lower  stories,  but  growing  dingier 
as  we  ascend,  borders  the  staircase  with  its  quaintly 
twisted  and  intertwined  pillars,  from  top  to  bot- 
tom. Up  these  stairs  the  military  boots,  or  per- 
chance the  gouty  shoes,  of  many  a governor  have 
trodden  as  the  wearers  mounted  to  the  cupola 
which  afforded  them  so  wide  a view  over  their  met- 
ropolis and  the  surrounding  country.  The  cupola 
is  an  octagon  with  several  windows,  and  a door 
opening  upon  the  roof.  From  this  station,  as  I 
pleased  myself  with  imagining,  Gage  may  have  be- 
held his  disastrous  victory  on  Bunker  Hill  (unless 
one  of  the  trimountains  intervened),  and  Howe 
have  marked  the  approaches  of  Washington’s  be- 
sieging army,  although  the  buildings  since  erected 
in  the  vicinity  have  shut  out  almost  every  object 
save  the  steeple  of  the  Old  South,  which  seems  al- 
most within  arm’s  length.  Descending  from  the 
cupola,  I paused  in  the  garret  to  observe  the  pon- 
derous white-oak  framework,  so  much  more  mas- 
sive than  the  frames  of  modern  houses,  and  thereby 
resembling  an  antique  skeleton.  The  brick  walls, 
the  materials  of  which  were  imported  from  Holland, 
and  the  timbers  of  the  mansion,  are  still  as  sound 
as  ever,  but,  the  floors  and  other  interior  parts 
being  greatly  decayed,  it  is  contemplated  to  gut 
the  whole  and  build  a new  house  within  the  ancient 
frame  and  brickwork.  Among  other  inconveniences 


5 

10 

15 

20 

25 

30 


72 


TWICE-TOLD  TALES 


of  the  present  edifice,  mine  host  mentioned  that 
any  jar  or  motion  was  apt  to  shakedown  the  dust 
of  ages  out  of  the  ceiling  of  one  chamber  upon  the 
floor  of  that  beneath  it. 

5 We  stepped  forth  from  the  great  front  window 
into  the  balcony  where  in  old  times  it  was  doubt- 
less the  custom  of  the  king’s  representative  to  show 
himself  to  a loyal  populace,  requiting  their  huzzas 
and  tossed-up  hats  with  stately  bendings  of  his 
10  dignified  person.  In  those  days  the  front  of  the 
Province  House  looked  upon  the  street,  and  the 
whole  site  now  occupied  by  the  brick  range  of  stores, 
as  well  as  the  present  court-yard,  was  laid  out  in 
grass-plats  overshadowed  by  trees  and  bordered 
15  by  a wrought-iron  fence.  Now  the  old  aristocratic 
edifice  hides  its  time-worn  visage  behind  an  upstart 
modern  building ; at  one  of  the  back  windows  I ob- 
served some  pretty  tailoresses  sewing  and  chatting 
and  laughing,  with  now  and  then  a careless  glance 
20  toward  the  balcony.  Descending  thence,  we  again 
entered  the  bar-room,  where  the  elderly  gentleman 
above  mentioned — the  smack  of  whose  lips  had 
spoken  so  favorably  for  Mr.  Waite’s  good  liquor — 
was  still  lounging  in  his  chair.  He  seemed  to  be,  if 
25  not  a lodger,  at  least  a familiar  visitor  of  the 
house  who  might  be  supposed  to  have  his  regular 
score  at  the  bar,  his  summer  seat  at  the  open  win- 
dow and  his  prescriptive  corner  at  the  winter’s  fire- 
side. Being  of  a sociable  aspect,  I ventured  to  ad- 
30  dress  him  with  a remark  calculated  to  draw  forth 
his  historical  reminiscences,  if  any  such  were  in  his 


HOWE’S  MASQUERADE 


73 


mind,  and  it  gratified  me  to  discover  that,  between 
memory  and  tradition,  the  old  gentleman  was 
really  possessed  of  some  very  pleasant  gossip 
about  the  Province  House.  The  portion  of  his 
talk  which  chiefly  interested  me  was  the  outline  of  5 
the  following  legend . He  professed  to  have  received 
it  at  one  or  two  removes  from  an  eye-witness, 
but  this  derivation,  together  with  the  lapse  of 
time,  must  have  afforded  opportunities  for  many 
variations  of  the  narrative;  so  that,  despairing  10 
of  literal  and  absolute  truth,  I have  not  scrupled 
to  make  such  further  changes  as  seemed  conducive  ■ 
to  the  reader’s  profit  and  delight. 

At  one  of  the  entertainments  given  at  the  Prov- 
ince House  during  the  latter  part  of  the  siege  of  16 
Boston  there  passed  a scene  which  has  never  yet 
been  satisfactorily  explained.  The  officers  of  the 
British  army  and  the  loyal  gentry  of  the  province, 
most  of  whom  were  collected  within  the  beleaguered 
town,  had  been  invited  to  a masqued  ball,  for  it  20 
was  the  policy  for  Sir  William  Howe  to  hide  the 
distress  and  danger  of  the  period  and  the  desperate 
aspect  of  the  siege  under  an  ostentation  of  festivity. 
The  spectacle  of  this  evening,  if  the  oldest  members 
of  the  provincial  court  circle  might  be  believed,  was  25 
the  most  gay  and  gorgeous  affair  that  had  occurred 
in  the  annals  of  the  government.  The  brilliantly- 
lighted  apartments  were  thronged  with  figures  that 
seemed  to  h ave  stepped  from  the  dark  canvas  of 
historic  portraits  or  to  have  flitted  forth  from  the  30 
magic  pages  of  romance,  or  at  least  to  have  flown 


74 


TWICE-TOLD  TALES 


hither  from  one  of  the  London  theatres  without  a 
change  of  garments.  Steeled  knights  of  the  Con- 
quest, bearded  statesmen  of  Queen  Elizabeth  and 
high  ruffled  ladies  of  her  court  were  mingled  with 
5 characters  of  comedy,  such  as  a parti-colored  Mer- 
ry Andrew  jingling  his  cap  and  bells,  a Falstaff  al- 
most as  provocative  of  laughter  as  his  prototype, 
and  a Don  Quixote  with  a bean-pole  for  a lance 
and  a pot-lid  for  a shield. 

40  But  the  broadest  merriment  was  excited  by  a 
group  of  figures  ridiculously  dressed  in  old  regi- 
mentals which  seemed  to  have  been  purchased  at  a 
military  rag-fair  or  pilfered  from  some  receptacle 
of  the  cast-off  clothes  of  both  the  French  and  Brit- 
15  ish  armies.  Portions  of  their  attire  had  probably 
been  worn  at  the  siege  of  Louisburg,  and  the  coats 
of  most  recent  cut  might  have  been  rent  and  tat- 
tered by  sword,  ball  or  bayonet  as  long  ago  as 
W olfe’s  victory.  One  of  these  worthies — a tall,  lank 
20  figure  brandishing  a rusty  sword  of  immense  longi- 
tude— purported  to  be  no  less  a personage  than 
General  George  Washington,  and  the  other  princi- 
pal officers  of  the  American  army,  such  as  Gates, 
Lee,  Putnam,  Schuyler,  Ward  and  Heath,  were 
25  represented  by  similar  scarecrows.  An  interview 
in  the  mock-heroic  style  between  the  rebel  warriors 
and  the  British  commander-in-chief  was  received 
with  immense  applause,  which  came  loudest  of  all 
from  the  loyalists  of  the  colony. 

30  There  was  one  of  the  guests,  however,  who  stood 
apart,  eyeing  these  antics  sternly  and  scornfully  at 


HOWIE’S  MASQUERADE 


75 


once  with  a frown  and  a bitter  smile.  It  was  an 
old  man  formerly  of  high  station  and  great  repute 
in  the  province,  and  who  had  been  a very  famous 
soldier  in  his  day.  Some  surprise  had  been  ex- 
pressed that  a person  of  Colonel  Joliffe’s  known  5 
Whig  principles,  though  now  too  old  to  take  an 
active  part  in  the  contest,  should  have  remained 
in  Boston  during  the  siege,  and  especially  that 
he  should  consent  to  show  himself  in  the  mansion 
of  Sir  William  Howe.  But  thither  he  had  comeio 
with  a fair  granddaughter  under  his  arm,  and 
there,  amid  all  the  mirth  and  buffoonery,  stood 
this  stern  old  figure,  the  best  sustained  character 
in  the  masquerade,  because  so  well  representing  the 
antique  spirit  of  his  native  land.  The  other  guests  15 
affirmed  that  Colonel  Joliffe’s  black  puritanical 
scowl  threw  a shadow  round  about  him,  although, 
in  spite  of  his  sombre  influence,  their  gayety  con- 
tinued to  blaze  higher,  like — an  ominous  compari- 
son— the  flickering  brilliancy  of  a lamp  which  has  20 
but  a little  while  to  burn. 

Eleven  strokes  full  half  an  hour  ago  had  pealed 
from  the  clock  of  the  Old  South,  when  a rumor  was 
circulated  among  the  company  that  some  new 
spectacle  or  pageant  was  about  to  be  exhibited  25 
which  should  put  a fitting  close  to  the  splendid  fes- 
tivities of  the  night. 

“ What  new  jest  has  Your  Excellency  in  hand?” 
asked  the  Beverend  Mather  Byles,  whose  Presby- 
terian scruples  had  not  kept  him  from  the  enter- 30 
tainment,  “ Trust  me,  sir,  I have  already  laughed 


76 


TWICE-TOLD  TALES 


more  than  beseems  my  cloth  at  your  Homeric  con- 
fabulation with  yonder  ragamuffin  general  of  the 
rebels.  One  other  such  fit  of  merriment,  and  I must 
throw  off  my  .clerical  wig  and  band.” 

5 “Not  so,  good  Dr.  Byles,”  answered  Sir  William 
Howe;  “if  mirth  were  a crime,  you  had  never 
gained  your  doctorate  in  divinity.  As  to  this  new 
foolery,  I know  no  more  about  it  than  yourself — 
perhaps  not  so  much.  Honestly,  now,  doctor, 
10  have  you  not  stirred  up  the  sober  brains  of  some 
of  your  countrymen  to  enact  a scene  in  our  mas- 
querade? ” 

“ Perhaps,”  slyly  remarked  the  granddaughter 
of  Colonel  Joliffe,  whose  high  spirits  had  been 
15  stung  by  many  taunts  against  New  England — 
“ perhaps  we  are  to  have  a masque  of  allegorical 
figures — Victory  with  trophies  from  Lexington  and 
Bunker  Hill,  Plenty  with  her  overflowing  horn  to 
typify  the  present  abundance  in  this  good  town, 
20  and  Glory  with  a wreath  for  His  Excellency’s 
brow.” 

Sir  William  Howe  smiled  at  words  which  he 
would  have  answered  with  one  of  his  darkest 
frowns  had  they  been  uttered  by  lips  that  wore  a 
25  beard.  He  was  spared  the  necessity  of  a retort  by 
a singular  interruption.  A sound  of  music  was 
heard  without  the  house,  as  if  proceeding  from  a full 
band  of  military  instruments  stationed  in  the 
street,  playing,  not  such  a festal  strain  as  was 
30  suited  to  the  occasion,  but  a slow  funeral-march. 
The  drums  appeared  to  be  muffled,  and  the  trum- 


HOWE’S  MASQUERADE. 


77 


pets  poured  forth  a wailing  breath  which  at  once 
hushed  the  merriment  of  the  auditors,  filling  all 
with  wonder  and  some  with  apprehension.  The 
idea  occurred  to  many  that  either  the  funeral 
procession  of  some  great  personage  had  halted  in  5 
front  of  the  Province  House,  or  that  a corpse  in 
a velvet- covered  and  gorgeously-decorated  coffin 
was  about  to  be  borne  from  the  portal.  After 
listening  a moment,  Sir  William  Howe  called  in  a 
stern  voice  to  the  leader  of  the  musicians,  whoio 
had  hitherto  enlivened  the  entertainment  with 
gay  and  lightsome  melodies.  The  man  was  drum- 
major  to  one  of  the  British  regiments. 

“Dighton,”  demanded  the  general,  “ what  means 
this  foolery?  Bid  your  band  silence  that  dead  15 
march,  or,  by  my  word,  they  shall  have  sufficient 
cause  for  their  lugubrious  strains.  Silence  it, 
sirrah!  ” 

“Please,  Your  Honor,”  answered  the  drum- 
major,  whose  rubicund  visage  had  lost  all  its  color,  20 
“ the  fault  is  none  of  mine.  I and  my  band  are  all 
here  together,  and  I question  whether  there  be  a 
man  of  us  that  could  play  that  march  without 
book.  I never  heard  it  but  once  before,  and  that 
was  at  the  funeral  of  his  late  Majesty,  King  25 
George  II.” 

“Well,  well!  ” said  Sir  William  Howe,  recovering 
his  composure;  “it  is  the  prelude  of  some  mas- 
querading antic.  Let  it  pass.” 

A figure  now  presented  itself,  but  among  the30 
many  fantastic  masks  th  at  were  dispersed  through 


78 


TWICE-TOLD  TALES 


the  apartments  none  could  tell  precisely  from 
whence  it  came.  It  was  a man  in  an  old-fashioned 
dress  of  black  serge  and  having  the  aspect  of  a 
steward  or  principal  domestic  in  the  household  of 
8 a nobleman  or  great  English  landholder.  This 
figure  advanced  to  the  outer,  door  of  the  mansion, 
and,  throwing  both  its  leaves  wide  open,  with- 
drew a little  to  one  side  and  looked  back  toward 
the  grand  staircase,  as  if  expecting  some  person 
10 to  descend.  At  the  same  time,  the  music  in  the 
street  sounded  a loud  and  doleful  summons.  The 
eyes  of  Sir  William  Howe  and  his  guests  being  di- 
rected to  the  staircase,  there  appeared  on  the  up- 
permost landing-place,  that  was  discernible  from 
15  the  bottom,  several  personages  descending  toward 
the  door.  The  foremost  was  a man  of  stern  vis- 
age, wearing  a steeple-crowned  hat  and  a skull-cap 
beneath  it,  a dark  cloak  and  huge  wrinkled  boots 
that  came  halfway  up  his  legs.  Under  his  arm  was 
20  a rolled-up  banner  which  seemed  to  be  the  banner 
of  England,  but  strangely  rent  and  torn ; he  had  a 
sword  in  his  right  hand  and  grasped  a Bible  in  his 
left.  The  next  figure  was  of  milder  aspect,  yet  full 
of  dignity,  wearing  a broad  ruff  over  which  de- 
25  scended  a beard,  a gown  of  wrought  velvet  and  a 
doublet  and  hose  of  black  satin ; he  carried  a roll  of 
manuscript  in  his  hand.  Close  behind  these  two 
came  a young  man  of  very  striking  countenance 
and  demeanor  with  deep  thought  and  contempla- 
30tion  on  his  brow,  and  perha  ps  a flash  of  enthusiasm 
in  his  eye ; his  garb,  like  that  of  his  predecessors, 


HOWE'S  MASQUERADE 


79 


was  of  an  antique  fashion,  and  there  was  a stain  of 
blood  upon  his  ruff.  In  the  same  group  with  these 
were  three  or  four  others,  all  men  of  dignity  and 
evident  command,  and  bearing  themselves  like  per- 
sonages who  were  accustomed  to  the  gaze  of  the 
multitude.  It  was  the  idea  of  the  beholders  that 
these  figures  went  to  join  the  mysterious  funeral 
that  had  halted  in  front  of  the  Province  House,  yet 
that  supposition  seemed  to  be  contradicted  by  the 
air  of  triumph  with  which  they  waved  their  hands 
as  they  crossed  the  threshold  and  vanished  through 
the  portal. 

“In  the  devil’s  name,  what  is  this?”  muttered 
Sir  William  Howe  to  a gentleman  beside  him.  “ A 
procession  of  the  regicide  judges  of  King  Charles  the 
martyr?  ” 

“These,”  said  Colonel  Joliffe,  breaking  silence  al- 
most for  the  first  time  that  evening— “ these,  if  I 
interpret  them  aright,  are  the  Puritan  governors, 
the  rulers  of  the  old  original  democracy  of  Massa- 
chusetts— Endicott  with  the  banner  from  which  he 
had  torn  the  symbol  of  subjection,  and  Winthrop 
and  Sir  Henry  Vane  and  Dudley,  Haynes,  Belling- 
ham and  Leverett.” 

“Why  had  that  young  man  a stain  of  blood  upon 
his  ruff  ? ” asked  Miss  Joliffe. 

“Because  in  after-years,”  answered,  her  grand- 
father, “he  laid  down  the  wisest  head  in  England 
upon  the  block  for  the  principles  of  liberty.” 

“ Will  not  Your  Excellency  order  out  the  guard?” 
whispered  Lord  Percy,  who,  with  other  British  of- 


5 

10 

15 

20 

25 

30 


80 


TWICE-TOLD  TALES 


ficers,  had  now  assembled  round  the  general. 
“There  may  be  a plot  under  this  mummery.” 

“Tush!  we  have  nothing  to  fear,”  carelessly  re- 
plied Sir  William  Howe.  “There  can  be  no  worse 
5 treason  in  the  matter  than  a jest,  and  that  some- 
what of  the  dullest.  Even  were  it  a sharp  and  bit- 
ter one,  our  best  policy  would  be  to  laugh  it  off. 
See!  here  come  more  of  these  gentry.” 

Another  group  of  characters  had  now  partly  de- 
lOscended  the  staircase.  The  first  was  a venerable 
and  white-bearded  patriarch  who  cautiously  felt 
his  way  downward  with  a staff.  Treading  hastily 
behind  him,  and  stretching  forth  his  gauntleted 
hand  as  if  to  grasp  the  old  man’s  shoulder,  came  a 
15  tall  soldier-like  figure  equipped  with  a plumed  cap 
of  steel,  a bright  breast-plate  and  a long  sword, 
which  rattled  against  the  stairs.  Next  was  seen  a 
stout  man  dressed  in  rich  and  courtly  attire,  but 
not  of  courtly  demeanor;  his  gait  had  the  swinging 
20  motion  of  a seaman’s  walk,  and,  chancing  to  stum- 
ble on  the  staircase,  he  suddenly  grew  wrathful  and 
was  heard  to  mutter  an  oath.  He  was  followed  by 
a noble-looking  personage  in  a curled  wig  such  as 
are  represented  in  the  portraits  of  Queen  Anne’s 
25  time  and  earlier,  and  the  breast  of  his  coat  was 
decorated  with  an  embroidered  star.  While  advan- 
cing to  the  door  he  bowed  to  the  right  hand  and 
to  the  left  in  a very  gracious  and  insinuating  style, 
but  as  he  crossed  the  threshold,  unlike  the  early 
30  Puritan  governors,  he  seemed  to  wring  his  hands 
with  sorrow. 


HOWE’S  MASQUERADE 


81 


“Prithee,  play  the  part  of  a chorus,  good  Dr. 
Byles,”  said  Sir  William  Howe.  “ What  worthies 
are  these?  ” 

“If  it  please  Your  Excellency,  they  lived  some- 
what before  my  day,”  answered  the  doctor;  “but  5 
doubtless  our  friend  the  colonel  has  been  hand and 
glove  with  them.” 

“Their  living  faces  I never  looked  upon,”  said 
Colonel  Joliffe,  gravely;  “although  I have  spoken 
face  to  face  with  many  rulers  of  this  land,  and  shall  10 
greet  yet  another  with  an  old  man’s  blessing  ere  I 
die.  But  we  talk  of  these  figures.  I take  the  ven- 
erable patriarch  to  be  Bradstreet,  the  last  of  the 
Puritans,  who  was  governor  at  ninety  or  there- 
abouts. The  next  is  Sir  Edmund  Andros,  a tyrant,  15 
as  any  New  England  school-boy  will  tell  you,  and 
therefore  the  people  cast  him  down  from  his  high 
seat  into  a dungeon.  Then  comes  Sir  William 
Phipps,  shepherd,  cooper,  sea-captain  and  gover- 
nor. May  many  of  his  countrymen  rise  as  high  20 
from  as  low  an  origin ! Lastly,  you  saw  the  gra- 
cious Earl  of  Bellamont,  who  ruled  us  under  King 
William.” 

“ But  what  is  the  meaning  of  it  all?  ” asked  Lord 
Percy.  25 

“ Now,  were  I a rebel,”  said  Miss  Joliffe,  half  aloud, 

“I  might  fancy  that  the  ghosts  of  these  ancient 
governors  had  been  summoned  to  form  the 
funeral  procession  of  royal  authority  in  New  Eng- 
land.” 30 

Several  other  figures  were  now  seen  at  the  turn 


82 


TWICE-TOLD  TALES 


of  the  staircase.  The  one  in  advance  had  a thought- 
ful, anxious  and  somewhat  crafty  expression  of 
face,  and  in  spite  of  his  loftiness  of  manner,  which 
was  evidently  the  result  both  of  an  ambitious  spirit 
5 and  of  long  continuance  in  high  stations,  he  seemed 
not  incapable  of  cringing  to  a greater  than  him- 
self. A few  steps  behind  him  came  an  officer  in  a 
scarlet  and  embroidered  uniform  cut  in  a fashion 
old  enough  to  have  been  worn  by  the  Duke  of  Marl- 
10  borough.  His  nose  had  a rubicund  tinge,  which, 
together  with  the  twinkle  of  his  eye,  might  have 
marked  him  as  a lover  of  the  wine-cup  and  good- 
fellowship;  notwithstanding  which  tokens,  he  ap- 
peared ill  at  ease,  and  often  glanced  around  him  as 
15  if  apprehensive  of  some  secret  mischief . Next  came 
a portly  gentleman  wearing  a coat  of  shaggy  cloth 
lined  with  silken  velvet ; he  had  sense,  shrewdness 
and  humor  in  his  face  and  a folio  under  his  arm, 
but  his  aspect  was  that  of  a man  vexed  and  tor- 
20  mented  beyond  all  patience  and  harassed  almost 
to  death.  He  went  hastily  down  and  was  followed 
by  a dignified  person  dressed  in  a purple  velvet  suit 
with  very  rich  embroidery;  his  demeanor  would 
have  possessed  much  stateliness,  only  that  a griev- 
25  ous  fit  of  the  gout  compelled  him  to  hobble  from 
stair  to  stair  with  contortions  of  face  and  body. 
When  Dr.  Byles  beheld  this  figure  on  the  staircase, 
he  shivered  as  with  an  ague,  but  continued  to  watch 
him  steadfastly  until  the  gouty  gentleman  had 
30  reached  the  thi’eshold,  made  a gesture  of  anguish 


HOWE'S  MASQUERADE. 


83 


and  despair  and  vanished  into  the  outer  gloom, 
whither  the  funeral  music  summoned  him. 

u Governor  Belcher — my  old  patron — in  his  very 
shape  and  dress  !”  gasped  Dr.  Byles.  “ This  is  an 
awful  mockery.” 

“A  tedious  foolery,  rather,”  said  Sir  William 
Howe,  with  an  air  of  indifference.  “But  who  were 
the  three  that  preceded  him  ?” 

“ Governor  Dudley,  a cunning  politician  ; yet  his 
craft  once  brought  him  to  a prison,”  replied  Colonel 
Joliffe.  “ Governor  Shute,  formerly  a colonel  under 
Marlborough,  and  whom  the  people  frightened  out 
of  the  province,  and  learned  Governor  Burnet, whom 
the  legislature  tormented  into  a mortal  fever.” 

“Methinks  they  were  miserable  men — these  royal 
governors  of  Massachusetts,”  observed  Miss  Joliffe. 
“ Heavens ! how  dim  the  light  grows ! ” 

It  was  certainly  a fact  that  the  large  lamp  which 
illuminated  the  staircase  now  burned  dim  and 
duskily;  so  that  several  figures  which  passed  hastily 
down  the  stairs  and  went  forth  from  the  porch  ap- 
peared rather  like  shadows  than  persons  of  fleshly 
substance. 

Sir  William  Howe  and  his  guests  stood  at  the 
doors  of  the  contiguous  apartments  watching  the 
progress  of  this  singular  pageant  with  various 
emotions  of  anger,  contempt  or  half-acknowledged 
fear,  but  still  with  an  anxious  curiosity.  The 
shapes  which  now  seemed  hastening  to  join  the 
mysterious  procession  were  recognized  rather  by 
striking  peculiarities  of  dress  or  broad  character- 


5 

10 

15 

20 

25 

30 


84 


TWICE-TOLD  TALES 


istics  of  manner  than  by  any  perceptible  resem- 
blance of  features  to  their  prototypes.  Their  faces, 
indeed,  were  invariably  kept  in  deep  shadow,  but 
Dr.  Byles  and  other  gentlemen  who  had  long  been 
5 familiar  with  the  successive  rulers  of  the  province 
were  heard  to  whisper  the  names  of  Shirley,  Pow- 
nall,  of  Sir  Francis  Bernard  and  of  the  well-remem- 
bered Hutchinson,  thereby  confessing  that  the  ac- 
tors, whoever  they  might  be,  in  this  spectral  march 
10  of  governors  had  succeeded  iu  putting  on  some 
distant  portraiture  of  the  real  personages.  As  they 
vanished  from  the  door,  still  did  these  shadows 
toss  their  arms  into  the  gloom  of  night  with  a 
dread  expression  of  woe.  Following  the  mimic 
15  representative  of  Hutchinson  came  a military 
figure  holding  before  his. face  the  cocked  hat  which 
he  had  taken  from  his  powdered  head,  but  his  epau- 
lettes and  other  insignia  of  rank  were  those  of  a 
general  officer,  and  something  in  his  mien  reminded 
20  the  beholders  of  one  who  had  recently  been  master 
of  the  Province  House  and  chief  of  all  the  land. 

“The  shape  of  Gage,  as  true  as  in  a looking- 
glass!”  exclaimed  Lord  Percy,  turning  pale. 

“No,  surely,”  cried  Miss  Joliffe,  laughing  hysteri- 
25cally,  “it  could  not  be  Gage,  or  Sir  William  would 
have  greeted  his  old  comrade  in  arms.  Perhaps  he 
will  not  suffer  the  next  to  pass  unchallenged.” 

“Of  that  be  assured,  young  lady,”  answered  Sir 
William  Howe,  fixing  his  eyes  with  a very  marked 
30  expression  upon  the  immovable  visage  of  her 
grandfather.  “ I have  long  enough  delayed  to  pay 


HOWE’S  MASQUERADE 


85 


the  ceremonies  of  a host  to  these  departing  guests ; 
the  next  that  takes  his  leave  shall  receive  due 
courtesy.” 

A wild  and  dreary  burst  of  music  came  through 
the  open  door.  It  seemed  as  if  the  procession,  5 
which  had  been  gradually  filling  up  its  ranks,  were 
now  about  to  move,  and  that  this  loud  appeal  of 
the  wailing  trumpets  and  roll  of  the  muffled  drums 
were  a call  to  some  loiterer  to  make  haste.  Many 
eyes,  by  an  irresistible  impulse,  were  turned  upon  10 
Sir  William  Howe,  as  if  it  were  he  whom  the  dreary 
music  summoned  to  the  funeral  of  departed  power. 

“See!  here  comes  the  last,”  whispered  Miss  Joliffe, 
pointing  her  tremulous  finger  to  the  staircase. 

A figure  had  come  into  view  as  if  descending  the  15 
stairs,  although  so  dusky  was  the  region  whence  it 
emerged  some  of  the  spectators  fancied  they  had 
seen  this  human  shape  suddenly  moulding  itself 
amid  the  gloom.  Downward  the  figure  came  with 
a stately  and  martial  tread,  and  reaching  the  low- 20 
est  stair,  was  observed  to  be  a tall  man  booted 
and  wrapped  in  a military  cloak,  which  was  drawn 
up  around  the  face  so  as  to  meet  the  flapped  brim 
of  a laced  hat;  the  features, therefore,  were  com- 
pletely hidden.  But  the  British  officers  deemed  25 
that  they  had  seen  that  military  cloak  before,  and 
even  recognized  the  frayed  embroidery  on  the  col- 
lar, as  well  as  the  gilded  scabbard  of  a sword  which 
protruded  from  the  folds  of  the  cloak  and  glittered 
in  a vivid  gleam  of  light.  Apart  from  these  trifling  30 
particulars  there  were  characteristics  of  gait  and 


86 


TWICE-TOLD  TALES 


bearing  which  compelled  the  wondering  guests  to 
glance  from  the  shrouded  figure  to  Sir  W illiam  Howe 
as  if  to  satisfy  themselves  that  their  host  had  not 
suddenly  vanished  from  the  midst  of  them.  With 
5 a dark  flush  of  wrath  upon  his  brow,  they  saw  the 
general  draw  his  sword  and  advance  to  meet  the 
figure  in  the  cloak  before  the  latter  had  stepped 
one  pace  upon  the  floor. 

“ Villain,  unmuffle  yourself ! ” cried  he.  “You  pass 
10  no  farther.” 

The  figure,  without  blenching  a hair’s-breadth 
from  the  sword  which  was  lowered  at  his  breast, 
made  a solemn  pause  and  lowered  the  cape  of  the 
cloak  from  about  his  face,  yet  not  sufficiently  for 
15  the  spectators  to  catch  a glimpse  of  it.  But  Sir 
William  Howe  had  evidently  seen  enough.  The 
sternness  of  his  countenance  gave  place  to  a look 
of  wild  amazement,  if  not  horror,  while  he  recoiled 
several  steps  from  the  figure  and  let  fall  his  sword 
20  upon  the  floor.  The  martial  shape  again  drew 
the  cloak  about  his  features  and  passed  on,  but, 
reaching  the  threshold  with  his  back  toward  the 
spectators,  he  was  seen  to  stamp  his  foot  and 
shake  his  clenched  hands  in  the  air.  It  was  after- 
25  wards  affirmed  that  Sir  William  Howe  had  repeated 
that  self-same  gesture  of  rage  and  sorrow  when  for 
the  last  time,  and  as  the  last  royal  governor,  he 
passed  through  the  portal  of  the  Province 
House. 

30  “Hark!  The  procession  moves,”  said  Miss 
Joliffe. 


HOWE'S  MASQUERADE 


87 


The  music  was  dying  away  along  the  street,  and 
its  dismal  strains  were  mingled  writh  the  knell  of 
midnight  from  the  steeple  of  the  Old  South  and 
with  the  roar  of  artillery  which  announced  that  the 
beleaguered  army  of  Washington  had  intrenched 
itself  upon  a nearer  height  than  before.  As  the 
deep  boom  of  the  cannon  smote  upon  his  ear  Col- 
onel Joliffe  raised  himself  to  the  full  height  of 
his  aged  form  and  smiled  sternly  on  the  British 
general. 

“ Would  Your  Excellency  inquire  further  into  the 
mystery  of  this  pageant?  ” said  he. 

“Take  care  of  your  gray  head!’7  cried  Sir 
William  Howe,  fiercely,  though  with  a quivering 
lip.  “It  has  stood  too  long  on  a traitor’s  shoul- 
ders.” 

“You  must  make  haste  to  chop  it  off,  then,” 
calmly  replied  the  colonel,  “for  a few  hours  longer, 
and  not  all  the  power  of  Sir  William  Howe,  nor  of 
his  master,  shall  cause  one  of  these  gray  hairs  to 
fall.  The  empire  of  Britain  in  this  ancient  province 
is  at  its  last  gasp  to-night ; almost  while  I speak 
it  is  a dead  corpse,  and  methinks  the  shadows 
of  the  old  governors  are  fit  mourners  at  its 
funeral.” 

With  these  words  Colonel  Joliffe  threw  on  his 
cloak,  and,  drawing  his  grand-daughter’s  arm 
within  his  own,  retired  from  the  last  festival  that  a 
British  ruler  ever  held  in  the  old  province  of  Mas- 
sachusetts Bay.  It  was  supposed  that  the  colonel 
and  the  young  lady  possessed  some  secret  intelli- 


5 

10 

15 

20 

25 

30 


88 


TWICE-TOLD  TALES 


gence  in  regard  to  the  mysterious  pageant  of  that 
night.  However  this  might  be,  such  knowledge 
has  never  become  general.  The  actors  in  the  scene 
have  vanished  into  deeper  obscurity  than  even 
5 that  wild  Indian  band  who  scattered  the  cargoes  of 
the  tea-ships  on  the  waves  and  gained  a place  in 
history,  yet  left  no  names.  But  superstition, 
among  other  legends  of  this  mansion,  repeats  the 
wondrous  tale  that  on  the  anniversary  night  of 
10  Britain’s  discomfiture  the  ghosts  of  the  ancient 
governors  of  Massachusetts  still  glide  through  the 
portal  of  the  Province  House.  And  last  of  all 
comes  a figure  shrouded  in  a military  cloak,  toss- 
ing his  clenched  hands  into  the  air  and  stamping 
15  his  iron-shod  boots  upon  the  broad  freestone  steps 
with  a semblance  of  feverish  despair,  but  without 
the  sound  of  a foot-tramp. 

When  the  truth-telling  accents  of  the  elderly  gen- 
tleman were  hushed,  I drew  a long  breath  and  look- 
20  ed  round  the  room,  striving  with  the  best  energy 
of  my  imagination  to  throw  a tinge  of  romance 
and  historic  grandeur  over  the  realities  of  the 
scene.  But  my  nostrils  snuffed  up  a scent  of  cigar- 
smoke,  clouds  of  which  the  narrator  had  emitted 
25  by  way  of  visible  emblem,  I suppose,  of  the  nebu- 
lous obscurity  of  his  tale.  Moreover,  my  gorgeous 
fantasies  were  woefully  disturbed  by  the  rattling  of 
the  spoon  in  a tumbler  of  whiskey -punch  which  Mr. 
Thomas  Waite  was  mingling  for  a customer.  Nor 
30  did  it  add  to  the  picturesque  appearance  of  the 
panelled  walls  that  the  slate  of  the  Brookline  stage 


HOWE'S  MASQUERADE 


89 


was  suspended  against  them,  instead  of  the  armo- 
rial escutcheon  of  some  far-descended  governor.  A 
stage-driver  sat  at  one  of  the  windows  reading  a 
penny  paper  of  the  day — the  Boston  Times — and  pre- 
senting a figure  which  could  nowise  be  brought  into 
any  picture  of  “ Times  in  Boston”  seventy  or  a 
hundred  years  ago.  On  the  window-seat  lay  a 
bundle  neatly  done  up  in  brown  paper,  the  direc- 
tion of  which  I had  the  idle  curiosity  to  read: 
Miss  Susan  Huggins,  at  the  Province  House. 
A pretty  chamber-maid,  no  doubt.  In  truth,  it  is 
desperately  hard  work  when  we  attempt  to  throw 
the  spell  of  hoar  antiquity  over  localities  with 
which  the  living  world  and  the  day  that  is  passing 
over  us  have  aught  to  do.  Yet,  as  I glanced  at  the 
stately  staircase  down  which  the  procession  of  the 
old  governors  had  descended,  and  as  I emerged 
through  the  venerable  portal  whence  their  figures 
had  preceded  me,  it  gladdened  me  to  be  conscious 
of  a thrill  of  awe.  Then,  diving  through  the  nar- 
row archway,  a few  strides  transported  me  into 
the  densest  throng  of  Washington  Street. 


5 

10 

15 

20 


EDWARD  RANDOLPH  S PORTRAIT 


The  old  legendary  guest  of  the  Province  House 
abode  in  my  remembrance  from  midsummer  till 
January.  One  idle  evening  last  winter,  confident 
that  he  would  be  found  in  the  snuggest  corner  of 
the  bar-room,  I resolved  to  pay  him  another  visit, 
5 hoping  to  deserve  well  of  my  country  by  snatching 
from  oblivion  some  else  unheard-of  fact  of  history. 
The  night  was  chill  and  raw,  and  rendered  boister- 
ous by  almost  a gale  of  wind  which  whistled  along 
Washington  Street,  causing  the  gaslights  to  flare 
10  and  flicker  within  the  lamps. 

As  I hurried  onward  my  fancy  was  busy  with  a 
comparison  between  the  present  aspect  of  the  street 
and  that  which  it  probably  wore  when  the  British 
governors  inhabited  the  mansion  whither  I was 
15  now  going.  Brick  edifices  in  those  times  were  few 
till  a succession  of  destructive  fires  had  swept,  and 
swept  again,  the  wooden  dwellings  and  warehouses 
from  the  most  populous  quarters  of  the  towu. 
The  buildings  stood  insulated  and  independent, 
20  not,  as  now,  merging  their  separate  existences 
into  connected  ranges  with  a front  of  tiresome 
identity,  but  each  possessing  features  of  its  own, 
as  if  the  owner’s  individual  taste  had  shaped  it, 
and  the  whole  presenting  a picturesque  irregularity 

90 


EDWARD  RANDOLPH'S  PORTRAIT 


91 


the  absence  of  which  is  hardly  compensated  by  any 
beauties  of  our  modern  architecture.  Such  a scene, 
dimly  vanishing  from  the  eye  by  the  ray  of  here 
and  there  a tallow  candle  glimmering  through  the 
small  panes  of  scattered  windows,  would  form  a 5 
sombre  contrast  to  the  street  as  I beheld  it  with 
the  gaslights  blazing  from  corner  to  corner,  flaming 
within  the  shops  and  throwing  a noon-day  bright- 
ness through  the  huge  plates  of  glass.  But  the 
black,  lowering  sky,  as  I turned  my  eyes  upward,  10 
wore  doubtless  the  same  visage  as  when  it  frowned 
upon  the  ante-Revolutionary  New  Englanders. 
The  wintry  blast  had  the  same  shriek  that  was 
familiar  to  their  ears.  The  Old  South  Church,  too, 
still  pointed  its  antique  spire  into  the  darkness15 
and  was  lost  between  earth  and  heaven,  and,  as  I 
passed,  its  clock,  which  had  warned  so  many  gen- 
erations how  transitory  was  their  lifetime,  spoke 
heavily  and  slow  the  same  unregarded  moral  to 
myself.  “Only  seven  o’clock!”  thought  I.  “My 20 
old  friend’s  legends  will  scarcely  kill  the  hours 
’twixt  this  and  bedtime.” 

Passing  through  the  narrow  arch,  I crossed  the 
courtyard,  the  confined  precincts  of  which  were 
made  visible  by  a lantern  over  the  portal  of  the  21 
Province  House.  On  entering  the  bar-room,  I 
found,  as  I expected,  the  old  tradition-monger 
seated  by  a special  good  fire  of  anthracite,  compel- 
ling clouds  of  smoke  from  a corpulent  cigar.  He 
recognized  me  with  evident  pleasure,  for  my  rare30 
qualities  as  a patient  listener  invariably  made  me 


92 


TWICE-TOLD  TALES 


a favorite  with  the  elderly  gentlemen  and  ladies  of 
narrative  propensities.  Drawing  a chair  to  the 
fire,  I desired  mine  host  to  favor  us  with  a glass 
apiece  of  whiskey-punch,  which  was  speedily  pre- 
5 pared,  steaming  hot,  with  a slice  of  lemon  at  the 
bottom,  a dark  red  stratum  of  port  wine  upon  the 
surface  and  a sprinkling  of  nutmeg  strewn  over 
all.  As  we  touched  our  glasses  together,  my  legend- 
ary friend  made  himself  known  to  me  as  Mr.  Bela  Tif- 
10 f any,  and  I rejoiced  at  the  oddity  of  the  name,  be- 
cause it  gave  his  image  and  character  a sort  of  in- 
dividuality in  my  conception.  The  old  gentleman ’s 
draught  acted  as  a solvent  upon  his  memory,  so 
that  it  overflowed  with  tales,  traditions,  anecdotes 
15  of  famous  dead  people  and  traits  of  ancient  man- 
ners, some  of  which  were  childish  as  a nurse’s  lul- 
laby, while  others  might  have  been  worth  the 
notice  of  the  grave  historian.  Nothing  impressed 
me  more  than  a story  of  a black  mysterious  picture 
20  which  used  to  hang  in  one  of  the  chambers  of  the 
Province  House,  directly  above  the  room  where  we 
were  now  sitting.  The  following  is  as  correct  a 
version  of  the  fact  as  the  reader  would  be  likely  to 
obtain  from  any  other  source,  although,  assuredly, 
25  it  has  a tinge  of  romance  approaching  to  the  mar- 
vellous. 

In  one  of  the  apartments  of  the  Province  House 
there  was  long  preserved  an  ancient  picture  the 
frame  of  which  was  as  black  as  ebony,  and  the  can- 
30  vas  itself  so  dark  with  age,  damp  and  smoke  that 
not  a touch  of  the  painter’s  art  could  be  discerned. 


EDWARD  RANDOLPH’S  PORTRAIT 


93 


Time  had  thrown  an  impenetrable  veil  over  it  and 
left  to  tradition  and  fable  and  conjecture  to  say 
what  had  once  been  there  portrayed.  During  the 
rule  of  many  successive  governors  it  had  hung,  by 
prescriptive  and  undisputed  right,  over  the  man-  5 
tel-piece  of  the  same  chamber,  and  it  still  kept  its 
place  when  Lieutenant-governor  Hutchinson  as- 
sumed the  administration  of  the  province  on  the 
departure  of  Sir  Francis  Bernard. 

The  lieutenant-governor  sat  one  afternoon  rest- 10 
ing  his  head  against  the  carved  back  of  his  stately 
arm-chair  and  gazing  up  thoughtfully  at  the  void 
blackness  of  the  picture.  It  was  scarcely  a time 
for  such  inactive  musing,  when  affairs  of  the  deep- 
est moment  require  the  ruler’s  decision ; for  within  15 
that  very  hour  Hutchinson  hadreceivedintelligence 
of  the  arrival  of  a British  fleet  bringing  three  regi- 
ments from  Halifax  to  overawe  the  insubordina- 
tion of  the  people.  These  troops  awaited  his  per- 
mission to  occupy  the  fortress  of  Castle  William  20 
and  the  town  itself,  yet  instead  of  affixing  his  sig- 
nature to  an  official  order,  there  sat  the  lieutenant- 
governor  so  carefully  scrutinizing  the  black  waste 
of  canvas  that  his  demeanor  attracted  the  notice 
of  two  young  persons  who  attended  him . One,  25 
wearing  a military  dress  of  buff,  was  his  kinsman, 
Francis  Lincoln,  the  provincial  captain  of  Castle 
William ; the  other,  who  sat  on  a low  stool  beside 
his  chair,  was  Alice  Yane,  his  favorite  niece.  She 
was  clad  entirely  in  white — a pale,  ethereal  crea-30 
ture  who,  though  a native  of  New  England,  had 


94 


TWICE-TOLD  TALES 


been  educated  abroad  and  seemed  not  merely  a 
stranger  from  another  clime,  but  almost  a being 
from  another  world.  For  several  years,  until  left 
an  orphan,  she  had  dwelt  with  her  father  in  sunny 
5 Italy,  and  there  had  acquired  a taste  and  enthusi- 
asm for  sculpture  and  painting  which  she  found 
few  opportunities  of  gratifying  in  the  undecorated 
dwellings  of  the  colonial  gentry.  It  was  said  that 
the  early  productions  of  her  own  pencil  exhibited 
10  no  inferior  genius,  though  perhaps  the  rude  atmos- 
phere of  New  England  had  cramped  her  hand  and 
dimmed  the  glowing  colors  of  her  fancy.  But,  ob- 
serving her  uncle’s  steadfast  gaze,  which  appeared 
to  search  through  the  mist  of  years  to  discover 
15  the  subject  of  the  picture,  her  curiosity  was  ex- 
cited. 

“Is  it  known,  my  dear  uncle,”  inquired  she, 
“what  this  old  picture  once  represented?  Possi- 
bly, could  it  be  made  visible,  it  might  prove  a mas- 
20  terpiece  of  some  great  artist;  else  why  has  it  so 
long  held  such  a conspicuous  place?  ” 

As  her  uncle,  contrary  to  his  usual  custom — for 
he  was  as  attentive  to  all  the  humors  and  caprices 
of  Alice  as  if  she  had  been  his  own  best-beloved 
25  child — did  not  immediately  reply,  the  young 
captain  of  Castle  William  took  that  office  upon 
himself. 

“This  dark  old  square  of  canvas,  my  fair  cousin,” 
said  he,  “has  been  an  heirloom  in  the  Province 
30  House  from  time  immemorial.  As  to  the  painter, 
I can  tell  you  nothing;  but  if  half  the  stories  told 


EDWARD  RANDOLPH’S  PORTRAIT 


95 


of  it  be  true,  not  one  of  the  great  Italian  masters 
has  ever  produced  so  marvellous  a piece  of  work 
as  that  before  you.” 

Captain  Lincoln  proceeded  to  relate  some  of  the 
strange  fables  and  fantasies  which,  as  it  was  im- 
possible to  refute  them  by  ocular  demonstration, 
had  grown  to  be  articles  of  popular  belief  in  refer- 
ence to  this  old  picture.  One  of  the  wildest  and  at 
the  same  time  the  best-accredited  accounts  stated 
it  to  be  an  original  and  authentic  portrait  of  the 
Evil  One,  taken  at  a witch-meeting  near  Salem,  and 
that  its  strong  and  terrible  resemblance  had  been 
confirmed  by  several  of  the  confessing  wizards  and 
witches  at  their  trial  in  open  court.  It  was  like- 
wise affirmed  that  a familiar  spirit  or  demon  abode 
behind  the  blackness  of  the  picture,  and  had  shown 
himself  at  seasons  of  public  calamity  to  more  than 
one  of  the  royal  governors.  Shirley,  for  instance, 
had  beheld  this  ominous  apparition  on  the  eve  of 
General  Abercrombie’s  shameful  and  bloody  defeat 
under  the  walls  of  Ticonderoga.  Many  of  the 
servants  of  the  Province  House  had  caught  glimp- 
ses of  a visage  frowning  down  upon  them  at 
morning  or  evening  twilight,  or  in  the  depths  of 
night  while  raking  up  the  fires  that  glimmered  on 
the  hearth  beneath,  although  if  any  were  bold 
enough  to  hold  a torch  before  the  picture,  it  would 
appear  as  black  and  undistinguishable  as  ever. 
The  oldest  inhabitant  of  Boston  recollected  that 
his  father — in  whose  days  the  portrait  had  not 
wholly  faded  out  of  sight — had  once  looked  upon 


5 

10 

15 

20 

25 

,30 


96 


TWICE-TOLD  TALES 


it,  but  would  never  suffer  himself  to  be  questioned 
as  to  the  face  which  was  there  represented.  In 
connection  with  such  stories,  it  was  remarkable 
that  over  the  top  of  the  frame  there  were  some 
5 ragged  remnants  of  black  silk,  indicating  that  a 
veil  had  formerly  hung  down  before  the  picture 
until  the  duskiness  of  time  had  so  effectually  con- 
cealed it.  But,  after  all,  it  was  the  most  singular 
part  of  the  affair  that  so  many  of  the  pompous 
10  governors  of  Massachusetts  had  allowed  the  oblit- 
erated picture  to  remain  in  the  state-chamber  of 
the  Province  House. 

“Some  of  these  fables  are  really  awful,”  observed 
Alice  Vane,  who  had  occasionally  shuddered  as  well 
15 as  smiled  while  her  cousin  spoke.  “It  would  be 
almost  worth  while  to  wipe  away  the  black  sur- 
face of  the  canvas,  since  the  original  picture  can 
hardly  be  so  formidable  as  those  which  fancy  paints 
instead  of  it.” 

20  “But  would  it  be  possible,”  inquired  her  cousin, 
“to  restore  this  dark  picture  to  its  pristine  hues?  ” 

“Such  arts  are  known  in  Italy,”  said  Alice. 

The  lieutenant-governor  had  roused  himself  from 
his  abstracted  mood,  and  listened  with  a smile  to 
25  the  conversation  of  his  young  relatives.  Yet  his 
voice  had  something  peculiar  in  its  tones  when  he 
undertook  the  explanation  of  the  mystery. 

“I  am  sorry,  Alice,  to  destroy  your  faith  in  the 
legends  of  which  you  are  so  fond,”  remarked  he, 
30“but  my  antiquarian  researches  have  long  since 
made  me  acquainted  with  the  subject  of  this  picture 


EDWARD  RANDOLPH’S  PORTRAIT 


97 


— if  picture  it  can  be  called — which  is  no  more 
visible,  nor  ever  will  be,  than  the  face  of  the  long- 
buried  man  whom  it  once  represented.  It  was  the 
portrait  of  Edward  Randolph,  the  founder  of  this 
house,  a person  famous  in  the  history  of  New  5 
England.” 

“Of  that  Edward  Randolph,”  exclaimed  Captain 
Lincoln,  “ who  obtained  the  repeal  of  the  first  pro- 
vincial charter,  under  which  our  forefathers  had 
enjoyed  almost  democratic  privileges  — he  thatio 
was  styled  the  arch-enemy  of  New  England,  and 
whose  memory  is  still  held  in  detestation  as  the 
destroyer  of  our  liberties?” 

“It  was  the  same  Randolph,” answered  Hutchin- 
son, moving  uneasily  in  his  chair.  “ It  was  his  lot  15 
to  taste  the  bitterness  of  popular  odium.” 

“Our  annals  tell  us,”  continued  the  captain  of 
Castle  William,  “ that  the  curse  of  the  people  fol- 
lowed this  Randolph  where  he  went  and  wrought 
evil  in  all  the  subsequent  events  of  his  life,  and  that  20 
its  effect  was  seen,  likewise,  in  the  manner  of  his 
death.  They  say,  too,  that  the  inward  misery  of 
that  curse  worked  itself  outward  and  was  visible  on 
the  wretched  man’s  countenance,  making  it  too 
horrible  to  be  looked  upon.  If  so,  and  if  this  25 
picture  truly  represented  his  aspect,  it  was  in 
mercy  that  the  cloud  of  blackness  has  gathered 
over  it.” 

“ These  traditions  are  folly  to  one  who  has 
proved,  as  I have,  how  little  of  historic  truth  lies  30 
at  the  bottom,”  said  the  lieutenant-governor. 


98 


TWICE-TOLD  TALES 


“ As  regards  the  life  and  character  of  Edward  Ran- 
dolph, too  implicit  credence  has  been  given  to  Dr. 
Cotton  Mather,  who — I must  say  it,  though  some 
of  his  blood  runs  in  my  veins — has  filled  our  early 
5 history  with  old  woman’s  tales  as  fanciful  and  ex- 
travagant as  those  of  Greece  or  Rome.” 

“And  yet,”  whispered  Alice  Vane,  “may  not 
such  fables  have  a moral?  And  methinks,  if  the 
visage  of  this  portrait  be  so  dreadful,  it  is  not 
10  without  a cause  that  it  has  hung  so  long  in  a 
chamber  of  the  Province  House.  When  the  rulers 
feel  themselves  irresponsible,  it  were  well  that  they 
should  be  reminded  of  the  awful  weight  of  a people’s 
curse.” 

15  The  lieutenant-governor  started  and  gazed  for  a 
moment  at  his  niece,  as  if  her  girlish  phantasies 
had  struck  upon  some  feeling  in  his  own  breast 
which  all  his  policy  or  principles  could  not  entirely 
subdue.  He  knew,  indeed,  that  Alice,  in  spite  of  her 
20 foreign  education,  retained  the  native  sympathies 
of  a New  England  girl. 

“Peace,  silly  child!”  cried  he  at  last,  more 
harshly  than  he  had  ever  before  addressed  the 
gentle  Alice.  “ The  rebuke  of  a king  is  more  to  be 
25  dreaded  than  the  clamor  of  a wild,  misguided  mul- 
titude.— Captain  Lincoln,  it  is  decided : the  fortress 
of  Castle  William  must  be  occupied  by  the  royal 
troops.  The  two  remaining  regiments  shall  be  bil- 
leted in  the  town  or  encamped  upon  the  common. 
30  It  is  time,  after  years  of  tumult,  and  almost  re- 
bellion, that  His  Majesty’s  government  should 
have  a wall  of  strength  about  it.” 


EDWARD  RANDOLPH’S  PORTRAIT 


99 


“ Trust,  sir — trust  yet  a while  to  the  loyalty  of 
the  people,”  said  Captain  Lincoln,  “nor  teach 
them  that  they  can  ever  be  on  other  terms  with 
British  soldiers  than  those  of  brotherhood,  as 
when  they  fought  side  by  side  through  the  French 
war.  Do  not  convert  the  streets  of  your  native 
town  into  a camp.  Think  twice  before  you  give  up 
old  Castle  William,  the  key  of  the  province,  into 
other  keeping  than  that  of  true-born  New  Eng- 
landers.” 

“Young  man,  it  is  decided,”  repeated  Hutchin- 
son, rising  from  his  chair.  “A  British  officer  will 
be  in  attendance  this  evening  to  receive  the  neces- 
sary instructions  for  the  disposal  of  the  troops. 
Your  presence  also  will  be  required.  Till  then, 
farewell.” 

With  these  wwds  the  lieutenant-governor  hastily 
left  the  room,  while  Alice  and  her  cousin  more 
slowly  followed,  whispering  together,  and  once 
pausing  to  glance  back  at  the  mysterious  picture. 
The  captain  of  Castle  William  fancied  that  the 
girl’s  air  and  mien  were  such  as  might  have  be- 
longed to  one  of  those  spirits  of  fable — fairies  or 
creatures  of  a more  antique  mythology — who  some- 
times mingled  their  agency  with  mortal  affairs, 
half  in  caprice,  yet  with  a sensibility  to  human 
weal  or  woe.  As  he  held  the  door  for  her  to  pass 
Alice  beckoned  to  the  picture  and  smiled. 

“Qome  forth,  dark  and  evil  shape!”  cried  she. 
“It  is  thine  hour.” 


5 

10 

15 

20 

25 


30 


100 


TWICE-TOLD  TALES 


In  the  evening  lieutenant-governor  Hutchinson 
sat  in  the  same  chamber  where  the  foregoing  scene 
had  occurred,  surrounded  by  several  persons  whose 
various  interests  had  summoned  them  together. 
5 There  were  the  selectmen  of  Boston — plain  patri- 
archal fathers  of  the  people,  excellent  representa- 
tives of  the  old  puritanical  founders  whose  sombre 
strength  had  stamped  so  deep  an  impress  upon 
the  New  England  character.  Contrasting  with 
10  these  were  one  or  two  members  of  council,  richly 
dressed  in  the  white  wigs,  the  embroidered  waist- 
coats and  other  magnificence  of  the  time,  and 
making  a somewhat  ostentatious  display  of  cour- 
tier-like ceremonial.  In  attendance,  likewise,  was 
15  a major  of  the  British  army,  awaiting  the  lieuten- 
ant-governor’s orders  for  the  landing  of  the  troops, 
which  still  remained  on  board  the  transports.  The 
captain  of  Castle  William  stood  beside  Hutchinson’s 
chair,  with  folded  arms,  glancing  rather  haughtily 
20  at  the  British  officer  by  whom  he  was  soon  to  be 
superseded  in  his  command.  On  a table  in  the 
centre  of  the  chamber  stood  a branched  silver 
candlestick,  throwing  down  the  glow  of  half  a 
dozen  waxlights  upon  a paper  apparently  ready 
25  for  the  lieutenant-governor’s  signature. 

Partly  shrouded  in  the  voluminous  folds  of  one 
of  the  window-curtains,  which  fell  from  the  ceiling 
to  the  floor,  was  seen  the  white  drapery  of  a lady’s 
robe.  It  may  appear  strange  that  Alice  Yane 
30  should  have  been  there  at  such  a time,  but  there 
was  something  so  childlike,  so  wayward,  in  her 


EDWARD  RANDOLPH’S  PORTRAIT  101 


singular  character,  so  apart  from  ordinary  rules, 
that  her  presence  did  not  surprise  the  few  who 
noticed  it.  Meantime,  the  chairman  of  the  select- 
men was  addressing  to  the  lieutenant-governor  a 
long  and  solemn  protest  against  the  reception  of  a 
the  British  troops  into  the  town. 

“And  if  Your  Honor,”  concluded  this  excellent 
but  somewhat  prosy  old  gentleman,  “ shall  see  fit 
to  persist  in  bringing  the  mercenary  sworders  and 
musketeers  into  our  quiet  streets,  not  on  our  heads  10 
be  the  responsibility.  Think,  sir,  while  there  is  yet 
time,  that  if  one  drop  of  blood  be  shed,  that  blood 
shall  be  an  eternal  stain  upon  Your  Honor’s  mem- 
ory. You,  sir,  have  written  with  an  able  pen  the 
deeds  of  our  forefathers ; the  more  to  be  desired  15 
is  it,  therefore,  that  yourself  should  deserve  honor- 
able mention  as  a true  patriot  and  upright  ruler 
when  your  own  doings  shall  be  written  down  in 
history.” 

“ I am  not  insensible,  my  good  sir,  to  the  natural  20 
desire  to  stand  well  in  the  annals  of  my  country,” 
replied  Hutchinson,  controlling  his  impatience  into 
courtesy,  “nor  know  I any  better  method  of  at- 
taining that  end  than  by  withstanding  the  merely 
temporary  spirit  of  mischief  which,  with  your  25 
pardon,  seems  to  have  infected  older  men  than 
myself.  Would  you  have  me  wait  till  the  mob  shall 
sack  the  Province  House  as  they  did  my  private 
mansion?  Trust  me,  sir,  the  time  may  come  when 


15  The  deeds  of  our  forefathers.  Hutchinson  was  the  author  of  a well- 
known  “ History  of  Massachusetts  Bay.” 


102 


TWICE-TOLD  TALES 


you  will  be  glad  to  flee  for  protection  to  the  king’s 
banner,  the  raising  of  which  is  now  so  distasteful 
to  you.” 

“Yes,”  said  the  British  major,  who  was  impa- 
5 tiently  expecting  the  lieutenant-governor’s  orders. 
“The  demagogues  of  his  province  have  raised  the 
devil,  and  cannot  lay  him  again.  We  will  exorcise 
him  in  God’s  name  and  the  king’s.” 

“If  you  meddle  with  the  devil,  take  care  of  his 
10  claws,”  answered  the  captain  of  Castle  William, 
stirred  by  the  taunt  against  his  countrymen. 

“Craving  your  pardon,  young  sir,”  said  the 
venerable  selectman,  “ let  not  an  evil  spirit  enter 
into  your  words.  We  will  strive  against  the  op- 
15  pressor  with  prayer  and  fasting,  as  our  forefathers 
would  have  done.  Like  them,  moreover,  we  will 
submit  to  whatever  lot  a wise  providence  may 
send  us, — always  after  our  own  best  exertions  to 
amend  it.” 

20  “And  there  peep  forth  the  devil’s  claws!”  mut- 
tered Hutchinson,  who  well  understood  the  nature 
of  Puritan  submission.  “ This  matter  shall  be  ex- 
pedited forthwith.  When  there  shall  be  a sentinel 
at  every  corner  and  a court  of  guard  before  the 
25  town-house,  a loyal  gentleman  may  venture  to 
walk  abroad.  What  to  me  is  the  outcry  of  a mob 
in  this  remote  province  of  the  realm?  The  king  is 
my  master,  and  England  is  my  country;  upheld 
by  their  armed  strength,  I set  my  foot  upon  the 
30  rabble  and  defy  them.” 

He  snatched  a pen  and  was  about  to  affix  his 


EDWARD  RANDOLPH’S  PORTRAIT 


103 


signature  to  the  paper  that  lay  on  the  table,  when 
the  captain  of  Castle  William  placed  his  hand  upon 
his  shoulder.  The  freedom  of  the  action,  so  con- 
trary to  ceremonious  respect  which  was  then  con- 
sidered due  to  rank  and  dignity,  awakened  general  5 
surprise,  and  in  none  more  than  in  the  lieutenant- 
governor  himself.  Looking  angrily  up,  he  perceived 
that  his  young  relative  was  pointing  his  finger  to 
the  opposite  wall.  Hutchinson’s  eye  followed  the 
signal,  and  he  saw  what  had  hitherto  been  unob- 10 
served — that  a black  silk  curtain  was  suspended 
before  the  mysterious  picture,  so  as  completely  to 
conceal  it.  His  thoughts  immediately  recurred  to 
the  scene  of  the  preceding  afternoon,  and  in  his 
surprise, confused  by  indistinct  emotions,  yet  sensi-15 
ble  that  his  niece  must  have  had  an  agency  in  this 
phenomenon,  he  called  loudly  upon  her : 

“ Alice ! Come  hither,  Alice ! ” 

No  sooner  had  he  spoken  than  Alice  Yane  glided 
from  her  station,  and,  pressing  one  hand  across  20 
her  eyes,  with  the  other  snatched  away  the  sable 
curtain  that  concealed  the  portrait.  An  exclama- 
tion of  surprise  burst  from  every  beholder,  but  the 
lieutenant-governor’s  voice  had  a tone  of  horror. 

“ By  Heaven ! ” said  he,  in  a.low,  inward  murmur,  25 
speaking  rather  to  himself  than  to  those  around 
him;  “if  the  spirit  of  Edward  Randolph  were  to  ap- 
pear among  us  from  the  place  of  torment,  he  could 
not  wear  more  of  the  terrors  of  hell  upon  his  face.” 

“For  some  wise  end,”  said  the  aged  selectman,  30 
solemnly,  “hath  Providence  scattered  away  the 


104 


TWICE-TOLD  TALES 


mist  of  years  that  had  so  long  hid  this  dreadful 
effigy.  Until  this  hour  no  living  man  hath  seen 
what  we  behold.” 

Within  the  antique  frame  which  so  recently  had 
6 enclosed  a sable  waste  of  canvas  now  appeared  a 
visible  picture — still  dark  indeed,  in  its  hues  and 
shadings,  but  thrown  forward  in  strong  relief.  It 
was  a half-length  figure  of  a gentleman  in  a rich 
but  very  old-fashioned  dress  of  embroidered  vel- 
10  vet,  with  a broad  ruff  and  a beard,  and  wearing  a 
hat  the  brim  of  which  overshadowed  his  forehead. 
Beneath  this  cloud  the  eyes  had  a peculiar  glare 
which  was  almost  lifelike.  The  whole  portrait 
started  so  distinctly  out  of  the  background  that 
15  it  had  the  effect  of  a person  looking  down  from  the 
wall  at  the  astonished  and  awe-stricken  spectators. 
The  expression  of  the  face,  if  any  wrords  can  convey 
an  idea  of  it,  was  that  of  a wretch  detected  in  some 
hideous  guilt  and  exposed  to  the  bitter  hatred  and 
20  laughter  and  withering  scorn  of  a vast  surround- 
ing multitude.  There  wras  the  struggle  of  defiance, 
beaten  down  and  overwhelmed  by  the  crushing 
weight  of  ignominy.  The  torture  of  the  soul  had 
come  forth  upon  the  countenance.  It  seemed  as  if 
25  the  picture,  while  hidden  behind  the  cloud  of  im- 
memorial years,  had  been  all  the  time  acquiring  an 
intenser  depth  and  darkness  of  expression,  till  now 
it  gloomed  forth  again  and  threw  its  evil  omen 
over  the  present  hour.  Such,  if  the  wild  legend 
30  may  be  credited,  was  the  portrait  of  Edward  Ran- 
dolph as  he  appeared  when  a people’s  curse  had 
wrought  its  influence  upon  his  nature. 


EDWARD  RANDOLPH’S  PORTRAIT 


105 


“ ’ Twould  drive  me  mad,  that  awful  face,”  said 
Hutchinson,  who  seemed  fascinated  by  the  contem- 
plation of  it. 

“ Be  warned,  then,”  whispered  Alice.  “ He  tram- 
pled on  a people’s  rights.  Behold  his  punishment  5 
and  avoid  a crime  like  his.” 

The  lieutenant-governor  actually  trembled  for  an 
instant,  but,  exerting  his  energy — which  was  not, 
however,  his  most  characteristic  feature — he  strove 
to  shake  off  the  spell  of  Randolph’s  countenance.  10 
“ Girl,”  cried  he,  laughing  bitterly,  as  he  turned 
to  Alice,  “ have  you  brought  hither  your  painter’s 
art,  your  Italian  spirit  of  intrigue,  your  tricks  of 
stage  effect,  and  think  to  influence  the  councils  of 
rulers  and  the  affairs  of  nations  by  such  shallow  15 
contrivances  ? See  here ! ” 

“Stay  yet  a while,”  said  the  selectman  as  Hut- 
chinson again  snatched  the  pen;  “for  if  ever 
mortal  man  received  a warning  from  a tormented 
soul,  your  Honor  is  that  man.”  20 

“Away,”  answered  Hutchinson,  fiercely.  “Though 
yonder  senseless  picture  cried  4 F orbear ! ’ it  should 
not  move  me ! ” 

Casting  a scowl  of  defiance  at  the  pictured  face — 
which  seemed  at  that  moment  to  intensify  the  25 
horror  of  its  miserable  and  wicked  look — he  scraw- 
led on  the  paper,  in  characters  that  betokened  it  a 
deed  of  desperation,  the  name  of  Thomas  Hutchin- 
son. Then,  it  is  said,  he  shuddered,  as  if  that 
signature  had  granted  away  his  salvation.  30 

“It  is  done,  ” said  he,  and  placed  his  hand  upon 
his  brow. 


106 


TWICE-TOLD  TALES 


“May  Heaven  forgive  the  deed!”  said  the  soft, 
sad  accents  of  Alice  Yane,  like  the  voice  of  a good 
spirit  flitting  away. 

When  morning  came,  there  was  a stifled  whisper 
5 through  the  household,  and  spreading  thence 
about  the  town,  that  the  dark  mysterious  picture 
had  started  from  the  wall  and  spoken  face  to  face 
with  lieutenant-governor  Hutchinson.  If  such  a 
miracle  had  been  wrought,  however,  no  traces  of  it 
10 remained  behind;  for  within  the  antique  frame 
nothing  could  be  discerned  save  the  impenetrable 
cloud  which  had  covered  the  canvas  since  the 
memory  of  man.  If  the  figure  had,  indeed,  stepped 
forth,  it  had  fled  back,  spirit-like,  at  the  day-dawn, 
15  and  hidden  itself  behind  a century’s  obscurity. 
The  truth  probably  was  that  Alice  Vane’s  secret 
for  restoring  the  hues  of  the  picture  had  merely 
effected  a temporary  renovation.  But  those  who 
in  that  brief  interval  had  beheld  the  awful  visage  of 
20  Edward  Randolph  desired  no  second  glance,  and 
ever  afterward  trembled  at  the  recollection  of  the 
scene  as  if  an  evil  spirit  had  appeared  visibly 
among  them.  And,  as  for  Hutchinson,  when,  far 
over  the  ocean,  his  dying-hour  drew  on,  he  gasped 
25  for  breath  and  complained  that  he  was  choking 
with  the  blood  of  the  Boston  massacre,  and 
Francis  Lincoln,  the  former  captain  of  Castle 
William,  who  was  standing  at  his  bed-side,  per- 
ceived a likeness  in  his  frenzied  look  to  that  of 
30  Edward  Randolph.  Did  his  broken  spirit  feel  at 
that  dread  hour  the  tremendous  burden  of  a 
people’s  curse  ? 


EDWARD  RANDOLPH’S  PORTRAIT 


107 


At  the  conclusion  of  this  miraculous  legend  I in- 
quired of  mine  host  whether  the  picture  still  re- 
mained in  the  chamber  over  our  heads,  but  Mr. 
Tiffany  informed  me  that  it  had  long  since  been  re- 
moved, and  was  supposed  to  be  hidden  in  some  5 
out-of-the  way  corner  of  the  New  England  Museum. 
Perchance  some  curious  antiquary  may  light  upon 
it  there,  and,  with  the  assistance  of  Mr.  Howarth, 
the  picture-cleaner,  may  supply  a not  unnecessary 
proof  of  the  authenticity  of  the  facts  here  set  down.  10 
During  the  progress  of  the  story  a storm  had 
been  gathering  abroad  and  raging  and  rattling  so 
loudly  in  the  upper  regions  of  the  Province  House 
that  it  seemed  as  if  all  the  old  governors  and 
great  men  were  running  riot  above  stairs  while  15 
Mr.  Bela  Tiffany  babbled  of  them  below.  In  the 
course  of  generations,  when  many  people  have 
lived  and  died  in  an  ancient  house,  the  whistling  of 
the  wind  through  its  crannies  and  the  creaking  of 
its  beams  and  rafters  become  strangely  like  the  20 
tones  of  the  human  voice,  or  thundering  laughter, 
or  heavy  footsteps  treading  the  deserted  chambers. 

It  is  as  if  the  echoes  of  half  a century  were  revived. 
Such  were  the  gostly  sounds  that  roared  and  mur- 
mured in  our  ears  when  I took  leave  of  the  circle  25 
round  the  fireside  of  the  Province  House,  and, 
plunging  dowm  the  doorsteps,  fought  my  way 
homeward  against  a drifting  snow-storm. 


LADY  ELEANORE’S  MANTLE 


Mine  excellent  friend  tlie  landlord  of  the  Province 
House  was  pleased  the  other  evening  to  invite  Mr. 
, Tiffany  and  myself  to  an  oyster-supper.  This 
slight  mark  of  respect  and  gratitude,  as  he  hand- 
5 somely  observed,  was  far  less  than  the  ingenious 
tale-teller,  and  I,  the  humble  note-maker  of  his 
narratives,  had  fairly  earned  by  the  public  notice 
which  our  joint  lucubrations  had  attracted  to  his 
establishment.  Many  a cigar  had  been  smoked 
10  within  his  premises,  many  a glass  of  wine  or  more 
potent  aqua  vitas  had  been  quaffed,  many  a dinner 
had  been  eaten,  by  curious  strangers  who,  save  for 
the  fortunate  conjunction  of  Mr.  Tiffany  and  me, 
would  never  have  ventured  through  that  darksome 
15  avenue  which  gives  access  to  the  historic  precincts 
of  the  Province  House.  In  short,  if  any  credit  be 
due  to  the  courteous  assurance  of  Mr.  Thomas 
Waite,  we  had  brought  his  forgotten  mansion 
i almost  as  effectually  into  public  view  as  if  we  had 
20  thrown  down  the  vulgar  range  of  shoe-shops  and 
dry-goods  stores  which  hides  its  aristocratic  front 
from  Washington  Street.  It  may  be  unadvisable, 
however,  to  speak  too  loudly  of  the  increased 
custom  of  the  house,  lest  Mr.  Waite  should  find  it 
25  difficult  to  renew  the  lease  on  so  favorable  terms 
as  heretofore. 


103 


LADY  ELE ANODE'S  MANTLE  109 

Being  thus  welcomed  as  benefactors,  neither  Mr. 
Tiffany  nor  myself  felt  any  scruple  in  doing  full 
justice  to  the  good  things  that  were  set  before  us. 

If  the  feast  were  less  magnificent  than  those  same 
panelled  walls  had  witnessed  in  a bygone  century ; 
if  mine  host  presided  with  somewhat  less  of  state 
than  might  have  befitted  a successor  of  the  royal 
governors;  if  the  guests  made  a less  imposing 
show  than  the  bewigged  and  powdered  and  em- 
broidered dignitaries  who  erst  banqueted  at  the 
gubernatorial  table  and  now  sleep  within  their 
armorial  tombs  on  Copp’s  Hill  or  round  King’s 
chapel, — yet  never,  I may  boldly  say,  did  a more 
comfortable  little  party  assemble  in  the  Province 
House  from  Queen  Anne’s  days  to  the  Revolution. 
The  occasion  was  rendered  more  interesting  by  the 
presence  of  a venerable  personage  whose  own  actual 
reminiscences  went  back  to  the  epoch  of  Gage  and 
Howe,  and  even  supplied  him  with  a doubtful  anec- 
dote or  two  of  Hutchinson.  He  was  of  that  small, 
and  now  all  but  extinguished,  class  whose  attach- 
ment to  royalty,  and  to  the  colonial  institutions 
and  customs  that  were  connected  with  it,  had  never 
yielded  to  the  democratic  heresies  of  after-times. 
The  young  Queen  of  Britain  has  not  a more  loyal 
subject  in  her  realm — perhaps  not  one  who  would 
kneel  before  her  throne  with  such  reverential  love 
—than  this  old  grandsire  whose  head  has  whitened 
beneath  the  mild  sway  of  the  republic  which  still  in 
his  mellower  moments  he  terms  a usurpation. 
Yet  prejudices  so  obstinate  had  not  made  him  an 


5 

10 

15 

20 

25 

30 


110 


TWICE-TOLD  TALES 


ungentle  or  impracticable  companion.  If  the  truth 
must  be  told,  the  life  of  the  aged  loyalist  has  been 
of  such  a scrambling  and  unsettled  character — he 
has  had  so  little  choice  of  friends  and  been  so  often 
5 destitute  of  any — that  I doubt  whether  he  would 
refuse  a cup  of  kindness  with  either  Oliver  Cromwell 
or  John  Hancock,  to  say  nothing  of  any  democrat 
now  upon  the  stage.  In  another  paper  of  this 
series  I may  perhaps  give  the  reader  a closer 
10  glimpse  of  his  portrait. 

Our  host  in  due  season  uncorked  a bottle  of 
Madeira  of  such  exquisite  perfume  and  admirable 
flavor  that  he  surely  must  have  discovered  it  in  an 
ancient  bin  down  deep  beneath  the  deepest  cellar 
15  where  some  jolly  old  butler  stored  away  the  govern- 
or’s choicest  wine  and  forgot  to  reveal  the  secret 
on  his  death-bed.  Peace  to  his  red-nosed  ghost  and  a 
libation  to  his  memory ! This  precious  liquor 
■was  imbibed  by  Mr.  Tiffany  with  peculiar  zest,  and 
20  after  sipping  the  third  glass  it  was  his  pleasure' to 
give  us  one  of  the  oddest  legends  which  he  had  yet 
raked  from  the  storehouse  where  he  keeps  such 
matters.  With  some  suitable  adornments  from 
my  own  fancy,  it  ran  pretty  much  as  follows. 

25  Not  long  after  Colonel  Shute  had  assumed  the 
government  of  Massachusetts  Bay — now  nearly 
a hundred  and  twenty  years  ago — a young  lady 
of  rank  and  fortune  arrived  from  England  to  claim 
his  protection  as  her  guardian.  He  was  her  distant 
30  relative,  but  the  nearest  who  had  survived  the 
gradual  extinction  of  her  family ; so  that  no  more 


LADY  ELEANORE’ S MANTLE 


111 


eligible  shelter  could  be  found  for  the  rich  and  high- 
born Lady  Eleanore  Rochcliffe  than  within  the 
Province  House  of  a Transatlantic  colony.  The 
consort  of  Governor  Shute,  moreover,  had  been  as 
a mother  to  her  childhood,  and  was  now  anxious 
to  receive  her  in  the  hope  that  a beautiful  young 
woman  would  be  exposed  to  infinitely  less  peril 
from  the  primitive  society  of  New  England  than 
amid  the  artifices  and  corruptions  of  a court.  If 
either  the  governor  or  his  lady  had  especially  con- 
sulted their  own  comfort,  they  would  probably 
have  sought  to  devolve  the  responsibility  on  other 
hands,  since  with  some  noble  and  splendid  traits  of 
character  Lady  Eleanore  was  remarkable  for  a 
harsh,  unyielding  pride,  a haughty  consciousness 
of  her  hereditary  and  personal  advantages,  which 
made  her  almost  incapable  of  control.  Judging 
from  many  traditionary  anecdotes,  this  peculiar 
temper  was  hardly  less  than  a monomania;  or  if 
the  acts  which  it  inspired  were  those  of  a sane  per- 
son, it  seemed  due  from  Providence  that  pride  so 
sinful  should  be  followed  by  as  severe  a retribution. 
That  tinge  of  the  marvellous  which  is  thrown  over 
so  many  of  these  half-forgotten  legends  has  prob- 
ably imparted  an  additional  wildness  to  the 
strange  story  of  Lady  Eleanore  Rochcliffe. 

The  ship  in  which  she  came  passenger  had  arrived 
at  Newport,  whence  Lady  Eleanore  was  conveyed 
to  Boston  in  the  governor’s  coach,  attended  by  a 
small  escort  of  gentlemen  on  horseback.  The 
ponderous  equipage,  with  its  four  black  horses, 


5 

10 

15 

20 

25 

30 


112 


TWICE-TOLD  TALES 


attracted  much  notice  as  it  rumbled  through  Corn- 
hill  surrounded  by  the  prancing  steeds  of  half  a 
dozen  cavaliers  with  swords  dangling  at  their 
stirrups  and  pistols  at  their  holsters.  Through 
5 the  large  glass  windows  of  the  coach,  as  it  rolled 
along,  the  people  could  discern  the  figure  of  Lady 
Eleanore,  strangely  combining  an  almost  queenly 
stateliness  with  the  grace  and  beauty  of  a maiden 
in  her  teens.  A singular  tale  had  gone  abroad 
10  among  the  ladies  of  the  province  that  their  fair 
rival  was  indebted  for  much  of  the  irresistible 
charm  of  her  appearance  to  a certain  article  of 
dress — an  embroidered  mantle — which  had  been 
wrought  by  the  most  skilful  artist  in  London,  and 
15  possessed  even  magical  properties  of  adornment. 
On  the  present  occasion,  however,  she  owed  noth- 
ing to  the  witchery  of  dress,  being  clad  in  a riding- 
habit  of  velvet  which  would  have  appeared  stiff  and 
ungraceful  ou  any  other  form. 

20  The  coachman  reined  in  his  four  black  steeds, 
and  the  whole  cavalcade  came  to  a pause  in  front 
of  the  contorted  iron  balustrade  that  fenced  the 
Province  House  from  the  public  street.  It  was 
an  awkward  coincidence  that  the  bell  of  the  Old 
25  South  was  just  then  tolling  for  a funeral ; so  that, 
instead  of  a gladsome  peal  with  which  it  was 
customary  to  announce  the  arrival  of  distinguished 
strangers,  Lady  Eleanore  Rochcliffe  was  ushered 
by  a doleful  clang,  as  if  calamity  had  come  em- 
30  bodied  in  her  beautiful  person. 

“A  very  great  disrespect!”  exclaimed  Captain 


LADY  ELEANORS' S MANTLE 


113 


Langford,  an  English  officer  who  had  recently 
brought  despatches  to  Governor  Shute.  “The 
funeral  should  have  been  deferred  lest  Lady 
Eleanore’s  spirits  be  affected  by  such  a dismal 
welcome.”  5 

“With  your  pardon,  sir,”  replied  Dr.  Clark,  a 
physician  and  a famous  champion  of  the  popular 
party,  “whatever  the  heralds  may  pretend,  a dead 
beggar  must  have  precedence  of  a living  queen. 
King  Death  confers  high  privileges.”  10 

These  remarks  were  interchanged  while  the 
speakers  waited  a passage  through  the  crowd  which 
had  gathered  on  each  side  of  the  gateway,  leaving 
an  open  avenue  to  the  portal  of  the  Province 
House.  A black  slave  in  livery  now  leaped  from  15 
behind  the  coach  and  threw  open  the  door,  while 
at  the  same  moment  Governor  Shute  descended 
the  flight  of  steps  from  his  mansion  to  assist  Lady 
Eleanore  in  alighting.  But  the  governor’s  stately 
approach  was  anticipated  in  a manner  that  excited  20 
general  astonishment.  A pale  young  man  with  his 
black  hair  all  in  disorder  rushed  from  the  throng 
and  prostrated  himself  beside  the  coach,  thus  offer- 
ing his  person  as  a footstool  for  Lady  Eleanore 
Roehcliffe  to  tread  upon.  She  held  back  an  instant,  25 
yet  with  an  expression  as  if  doubting  whether  the 
young  man  were  worthy  to  bear  the  weight  of  her 
footstep  rather  than  dissatisfied  to  receive  such 
awful  reverence  from  a fellow-mortal. 

“Up,  sir!”  said  the  governor,  sternly,  at  the 30 
same  time  lifting  his  cane  over  the  intruder. 

“ What  means  the  Bedlamite  by  this  freak?  ” 


114 


TWICE-TOLD  TALES 


“Nay,”  answered  Lady  Eleanore,  playfully,  but 
with  more  scorn  than  pity  in  her  tone;  “your 
excellency  shall  not  strike  him.  When  men  seek 
only  to  be  trampled  upon,  it  were  a pity  to  deny 
5 them  a favor  so  easily  granted — and  so  well 
deserved ! ” Then,  though  as  lightly  as  a sunbeam 
on  a cloud,  she  placed  her  foot  upon  the  cowering 
form  and  extended  her  hand  to  meet  that  of  the 
governor. 

10  There  was  a brief  interval  during  which  Lady 
Eleanore  retained  this  attitude,  and  never,  surely, 
was  there  an  apter  emblem  of  aristocracy  and  hered- 
itary pride  trampling  on  human  sympathies  and 
the  kindred  of  nature  than  these  two  figures  pre- 
15  sented  at  that  moment.  Yet  the  spectators  were 
so  smitten  with  her  beauty,  and  so  essential  did 
pride  seem  to  the  existence  of  such  a creature,  that 
they  gave  a simultaneous  acclamation  of  applause. 

“Who  is  this  insolent  young  fellow?”  inquired 
20  Captain  Langford,  who  still  remained  beside  Dr. 
Clark.  “ If  he  be  in  his  senses,  his  impertinence 
demands  the  bastinado ; if  mad,  Lady  Eleanore 
should  be  secured  from  further  inconvenience  by 
his  confinement.” 

25  “His  name  is  Jervase  Helwyse,”  answered  the 
doctor — “ a youth  of  no  birth  or  fortune,  or  other 
advantages  save  the  mind  and  soul  that  nature 
gave  him,  and,  being  secretary  to  our  colonial 
agent  in  London,  it  was  his  misfortune  to  meet 
30  this  Lady  Eleanore  Rochcliffe.  He  loved  her,  and 
her  scorn  has  driven  him  mad,” 


LADY  ELE ANODE’S  MANTLE 


115 


“He  was  mad  so  to  aspire,”  observed  the 
English  officer. 

“It  maybe  so,”  said  Dr.  Clark,  frowning  as  he 
spoke;  “but  I tell  you,  sir,  I could  wellnigh  doubt 
the  justice  of  the  Heaven  above  us  if  no  signals 
humiliation  overtake  this  lady  who  now  treads  so 
haughtily  into  yonder  mansion.  She  seeks  to  place 
herself  above  the  sympathies  of  our  common 
nature,  which  envelops  all  human  souls ; see  if  that 
nature  do  not  assert  its  claim  over  her  in  someio 
mode  that  shall  bring  her  level  with  the  lowest.” 

“ Never ! ” cried  Captain  Langford,  indignantly— 
“neither  in  life  nor  when  they  lay  her  with  her 
ancestors.” 

Not  many  days  afterwrard  the  governor  gave  a 15 
ball  in  honor  of  Lady  Eleanore  Rochcliffe.  The 
principal  gentry  of  the  colony  received  invitations, 
which  were  distributed  to  their  residences  far  and 
near  by  messengers  on  horseback  bearing  missives 
sealed  with  all  the  formality  of  official  despatches.  20 
In  obedience  to  the  summons,  there  was  a general 
gathering  of  rank,  wealth  and  beauty,  and  the  wide 
door  of  the  Province  House  had  seldom  given 
admittance  to  more  numerous  and  honorable 
guests  than  on  the  evening  of  Lady  Eleanore’s25 
ball.  Without  much  extravagance  of  eulogy,  the 
spectacle  might  even  be  termed  splendid,  for, 
according  to  the  fashion  of  the  times,  the  ladies 
shone  in  rich  silks  and  satins  outspread  over  wide- 
projecting  hoops,  and  the  gentlemen  glittered  in  30 
gold  embroidery  laid  unsparingly  upon  the  purple 


116 


TWICE-TOLD  TALES 


or  scarlet  or  sky-blue  velvet  which  was  the  material 
of  their  coats  and  waistcoats.  The  latter  article 
of  dress  was  of  great  importance,  since  it  enveloped 
the  wearer’s  body  nearly  to  the  knees  and  was 
5 perhaps  bedizened  with  the  amount  of  his  whole 
year’s  income  in  golden  flowers  and  foliage.  The 
altered  taste  of  the  present  day — a taste  symbolic 
of  a deep  change  in  the  whole  system  of  society — 
would  look  upon  almost  any  of  those  gorgeous 
10  figures  as  ridiculous,  although  that  evening  the 
guests  sought  their  reflections  in  the  pier-glasses 
and  rejoiced  to  catch  their  own  glitter  amid  the 
glittering  crowd.  What  a pity  that  one  of  the 
stately  mirrors  has  not  preserved  a picture  of  the 
15  scene  which  by  the  very  traits  that  were  so  trans- 
itory might  have  taught  us  much  that  would  be 
worth  knowing  and  remembering ! 

Would,  at  least,  that  either  painter  or  mirror 
could  convey  to  us  some  faint  idea  of  a garment 
20  already  noticed  in  this  legend — the  Lady  Elean ore’s 
embroidered  mantle,  which  the  gossips  whispered 
was  invested  with  magic  properties,  so  as  to  lend 
a new  and  untried  grace  to  her  figure  each  time 
that  she  put  it  on ! Idle  fancy  as  it  is,  this 
25  mysterious  mantle  has  thrown  an  awe  around  my 
image  of  her,  partly  from  its  fabled  virtues  and 
partly  because  it  was  the  handiwork  of  a dying 
woman,  and  perchance  owed  the  fantastic  grace 
of  its  conception  to  the  delirium  of  approaching 
30  death. 

After  the  ceremonial  greetings  had  been  paid,  Lady 


LADY  ELE ANODE'S  MANTLE 


117 


Eleanore  Rochcliffe  stood  apart  from  the  mob  of 
guests,  insulating  herself  within  a small  and  distin- 
guished circle  to  whom  she  accorded  a more  cordial 
favor  than  to  the  general  throng.  The  waxen 
torches  threw  their  radiance  vividly  over  the  scene,  5 
bringing  out  its  brilliant  points  in  strong  relief, 
but  she  gazed  carelessly,  and  with  now  and  then 
an  expression  of  weariness  or  scorn  tempered  with 
such  feminine  grace  that  her  auditors  scarcely 
perceived  the  moral  deformity  of  which  it  was  the  10 
utterance.  She  beheld  the  spectacle  not  with  vulgar 
ridicule,  as  disdaining  to  be  pleased  with  the  pro- 
vincial mockery  of  a court-festival,  but  with  the 
deeper  scorn  of  one  whose  spirit  held  itself  too  high 
to  participate  in  the  enjoyment  of  other  human  15 
souls.  Whether  or  no  the  recollections  of  those  who 
saw  her  that  evening  were  influenced  by  the  strange 
events  with  which  she  was  subsequently  connected, 
so  it  was  that  her  figure  ever  after  recurred  to 
them  as  marked  by  something  wild  and  unnatural,  20 
although  at  the  time  the  general  whisper  was  of  her 
exceeding  beauty  and  of  the  indescribable  charm 
which  her  mantle  threw  around  her.  Some  close 
observers,  indeed,  detected  a feverish  flush  and 
alternate  paleness  of  countenance,  with  a corres-25 
ponding  flow  and  revulsion  of  spirits,  and  once  or 
twice  a painful  and  helpless  betrayal  of  lassitude,  as 
if  she  were  on  the  point  of  sinking  to  the  ground. 
Then,  with  a nervous  shudder,  she  seemed  to 
arouse  her  energies,  and  threw  some  bright  and  30 
playful  yet  half- wicked  sarcasm  into  the  conversa- 


118 


TWICE-TOLD  TALES 


tion.  There  was  so  strange  a characteristic  in  her 
manners  and  sentiments  that  it  astonished  every 
right-minded  listener,  till,  looking  into  her  face,  a 
lurking  and  incomprehensible  glance  and  smile 
5 perplexed  them  with  doubts  both  as  to  her  serious- 
ness and  sanity.  Gradually,  Lady  Eleanore  Roch- 
cliffe’s  circle  grew  smaller,  till  only  four  gentlemen 
remained  in  it.  These  were  Captain  Langford, 
the  English  officer  before  mentioned ; a Virginian 
1°  planter  who  had  come  to  Massachusetts  on  some 
political  errand;  a young  Episcopal  clergyman, 
the  grandson  of  a British  earl;  and,  lastly,  the 
private  secretary  of  Governor  Shute,  whose  obse- 
quiousness had  won  a sort  of  tolerance  from  Lady 
15  Eleanore. 

At  different  periods  of  the  evening  the  liveried 
servants  of  the  Province  House  passed  among  the 
guests  bearing  huge  trays  of  refreshments  and 
French  and  Spanish  wines.  Lady  Eleanore  Roch- 
20cliffe,who  refused  to  wet  her  beautiful  lips  even  with 
a bubble  of  champagne,  had  sunk  back  into  a large 
damask  chair,  apparently  overwearied  either  with 
the  excitement  of  the  scene  or  its  tedium ; and 
while,  for  an  instant,  she  wras  unconscious  of  voices, 
25  laughter  and  music,  a young  man  stole  forward 
and  knelt  down  at  her  feet.  He  bore  a salver  in  his 
hand  on  which  was  a chased  silver  goblet  filled  to  the 
brim  with  wine,  which  he  offered  as  reverentially  as 
to  a crowned  queen — or,  rather,  with  the  awful 
30  devotion  of  a priest  doing  sacrifice  to  his  idol 
Conscious  that  some  one  touched  her  robe,  Lady 


LADY  ELEANOBE’S  MANTLE 


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Eleanore  started,  and  unclosed  her  eyes  upon  the 
pale,  wild  features  and  dishevelled  hair  of  Jervase 
Helwyse. 

“Why  do  you  haunt  me  thus?”  said  she,  in  a 
languid  tone,  but  with  a kindlier  feeling  than  she 
ordinarily  permitted  herself  to  express.  “They 
tell  me  that  I have  done  you  harm.” 

“ Heaven  knows  if  that  be  so,”  replied  the  young 
man,  solemnly.  “But,  Lady  Eleanore,  in  requital 
of  that  harm,  if  such  there  be,  and  for  your  own 
earthly  and  heavenly  welfare,  I pray  you  to  take 
one  sip  of  this  holy  wine  and  then  to  pass  the  gob- 
let round  among  the  guests.  And  this  shall  be  a 
symbol  that  you  have  not  sought  to  withdraw 
yourself  from  the  chain  of  human  sympathies, 
which  whoso  would  shake  off  must  keep  company 
with  fallen  angels.” 

“Where  has  this  mad  fellow  stolen  that  sacra- 
mental vessel?”  exclaimed  the  Episcopal  clergy- 
man. 

This  question  drew  the  notice  of  the  guests  to 
the  silver  cup,  which  was  recognized  as  appertain- 
ing to  the  communion-plate  of  the  Old  South 
Church,  and,  for  aught  that  could  be  known,  it  was 
brimming  over  with  the  consecrated  wine. 

“Perhaps  it  is  poisoned,”  half  whispered  the 
governor’s  secretary. 

“Pour  it  down  the  villain’s  throat!”  cried  the 
Virginian,  fiercely. 

“ Turn  him  out  of  the  house ! ” cried  Captain  Lang- 
ford, seizing  Jervase  Helwyse  so  roughly  by  the 


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shoulder  that  the  sacramental  cup  was  overturned 
and  its  contents  sprinkled  upon  Lady  Eleanore’s 
mantle.  “ Whether  knave,  fool  or  Bedlamite,  it  is 
intolerable  that  the  fellow  should  go  at  large.” 

5 “ Pray,  gentlemen,  do  my  poor  admirer  no  harm,” 

said  Lady  Eleanore,  with  a faint  and  weary  smile. 
“Take  him  out  of  my  sight,  if  such  be  your  pleas- 
ure, for  I can  find  in  my  heart  to  do  nothing  but 
laugh  at  him,  whereas,  in  all  decency  and  conscience, 
10  it  would  become  me  to  weep  for  the  mischief  I have 
wrought.” 

But  while  the  bystanders  were  attempting  to 
lead  away  the  unfortunate  young  man  he  broke 
from  them  and  with  a wild,  impassioned  earnest- 
15  ness  offered  a new  and  equally  strange  petition  to 
Lady  Eleanore.  It  was  no  other  than  that  she 
should  throw  off  the  mantle,  which  while  he  pressed 
the  silver  cup  of  wine  upon  her  she  had  drawn  more 
closely  around  her  form,  so  as  almost  to  shroud 
20  herself  within  it. 

“Cast  it  from  you,”  exclaimed  Jervase  Helwyse, 
clasping  his  hands  in  an  agony  of  entreaty.  “It 
may  not  yet  be  too  late.  Give  the  accursed  gar- 
ment to  the  flames.” 

25  But  Lady  Eleanore,  with  a laugh  of  scorn,  drew 
the  rich  folds  of  the  embroidered  mantle  over  her 
head  in  such  a fashion  as  to  give  a completely  new 
aspect  to  her  beautiful  face,  which,  half  hidden, 
half  revealed,  seemed  to  belong  to  some  being  of 
30  mysterious  character  and  purposes. 

“Farewell,  Jervase  Helwyse!”  said  she.  “Keep 


LADY  ELE ANODE’S  MANTLE 


121 


my  image  in  your  remembrance  as  you  behold  it 
now.” 

“Alas,  lady!”  he  replied,  in  a tone  no  longer 
wild,  but  sad  as  a funeral-bell;  “we  must  meet 
shortly  when  your  face  may  wear  another  aspect, 
a nd  that  shall  be  the  image  that  must  abide  within 
me.”  He  made  no  more  resistance  to  the  violent 
efforts  of  the  gentlemen  and  servants  who  almost 
dragged  him  out  of  the  apartment  and  dismissed 
him  roughly  from  the  iron  gate  of  the  Province 
House. 

Captain  Langford,  who  had  been  very  active  in 
this  affair,  was  returning  to  the  presence  of  Lady 
Eleanore  Rochcliffe,  when  he  encountered  the  phy- 
sician, Dr.  Clark,  with  whom  he  had  held  some 
casual  talk  on  the  day  of  her  arrival.  The  doctor 
stood  apart,  separated  from  Lady  Eleanore  by  the 
width  of  the  room,  but  eying  her  with  such  keen 
sagacity  that  Captain  Langford  involuntarily 
gave  him  credit  for  the  discovery  of  some  deep 
secret. 

“You  appear  to  be  smitten,  after  all,  with  the 
charms  of  this  queenly  maiden,”  said  he,  hoping 
thus  to  draw  forth  the  physician’s  hidden  knowl- 
edge. 

“ God  forbid ! ” answered  Dr.  Clark,  with  a grave 
smile;  “and  if  you  be  wise,  you  will  put  up  the 
same  prayer  for  yourself.  Woe  to  those  who  shall 
be  smitten  by  this  beautiful  Lady  Eleanore ! But 
yonder  stands  the  governor,  and  I have  a word  or 
two  for  his  private  ear.  Good-night ! ” He  accord- 


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ingly  advanced  to  Governor  Sliute  and  addressed 
him  in  so  low  a tone  that  none  of  the  bystanders 
could  catch  a word  of  what  he  said,  although  the 
sudden  change  of  His  Excellency’s  hitherto  cheerful 
5 visage  betokened  that  the  communication  could  be 
of  no  agreeable  import.  A very  few  moments  after- 
ward it  was  announced  to  the  guests  that  an 
unforeseen  circumstance  rendered  it  necessary  tc 
put  a premature  close  to  the  festival. 

10  The  ball  at  the  Province  House  supplied  a topic 
of  conversation  for  the  colonial  metropolis  for 
some  days  after  its  occurrence,  and  might  still 
longer  have  been  the  general  theme,  only  that  a 
subject  of  all  engrossing  interest  thrust  it  for  a 
15  time  from  the  public  recollection.  This  was  the 
appearance  of  a dreadful  epidemic  which  in  that 
age,  and  long  before  and  afterward,  was  wont  to 
slay  its  hundreds  and  thousands  on  both  sides  of 
the  Atlantic.  On  the  occasion  of  which  we  speak  it 
20  was  distinguished  by  peculiar  virulence,  insomuch 
that  it  has  left  its  traces — its  pitmarks,  to  use  an 
appropriate  figure — on  the  history  of  the  country, 
the  affairs  of  which  were  thrown  into  confusion  by 
its  ravages.  At  first,  unlike  its  ordinary  course, 
25  the  disease  seemed  to  confine  itself  to  the  higher 
circles  of  society,  selecting  its  victims  from  among 
the  proud,  the  well-born  and  the  wealthy,  entering 
unabashed  into  stately  chambers  and  lying  down 
with  the  slumberers  in  silken  beds.  Some  of  the 
30  most  distinguished  guests  of  the  Province  House — 
even  those  whom  the  haughty  Lady  Eleanore 


LADY  ELD  ANODE’S  MANTLE 


123 


Rochcliffe  had  deemed  not  unworthy  of  her  favor — 
were  stricken  by  this  fatal  scourge.  It  was  noticed 
with  an  ungenerous  bitterness  of  feeling  that  the 
four  gentlemen — the  Virginian,  the  British  officer, 
the  young  clergyman  and  the  governor’s  secretary 
— who  had  been  her  most  devoted  attendants  on 
the  evening  of  the  ball  were  the  foremost  on  whom 
the  plague-stroke  fell.  But  the  disease,  pursuing 
its  onward  progress,  soon  ceased  to  be  exclusively 
a prerogative  of  aristocracy.  Its  red  brand  was  no 
longer  conferred  like  a noble’s  star  or  an  order  of 
knighthood.  It  threaded  its  way  through  the 
narrow  and  crooked  streets,  and  entered  the  low, 
mean,  darksome  dwellings  and  laid  its  hand  of 
death  upon  the  artisans  and  laboring  classes  of  the 
town.  It  compelled  rich  and  poor  to  feel  them- 
selves brethren  then,  and  stalking  to  and  fro  across 
the  Three  Hills  with  a fierceness  which  made  it 
almost  a new  pestilence,  there  was  that  mighty 
conqueror — that  scourge  and  horror  of  our  fore- 
fathers— the  small-pox. 

We  cannot  estimate  the  affright  which  this 
plague  inspired  of  yore  by  contemplating  it  as  the 
fangless  monster  of  the  present  day.  We  must 
remember,  rather,  with  what  awe  we  watched  the 
gigantic  footsteps  of  the  Asiatic  cholera  striding 
from  shore  to  shore  of  the  Atlantic  and  marching 
like  Destiny  upon  cities  far  remote  which  flight  had 
already  half  depopulated.  There  is  no  other  fear 

is  Three  Hills.  Boston  was  originally  called  Trimountain  because  of 
formation  of  the  land  on  which  it  is  built. 


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so  horrible  and  unhumanizing  as  that  which  makes 
man  dread  to  breathe  heaven’s  vital  air  lest  it  be 
poison,  or  to  grasp  the  hand  of  a brother  or  friend 
lest  the  grip  of  the  pestilence  should  clutch  him. 

5 Such  was  the  dismay  that  now  followed  in  the 
track  of  the  disease  or  ran  before  it  throughout  the 
town.  Graves  were  hastily  dug  and  the  pestilential 
relics  as  hastily  covered,  because  the  dead  were 
enemies  of  the  living  and  strove  to  draw  them 
10  headlong,  as  it  were,  into  their  own  dismal  pit. 
The  public  councils  were  suspended,  as  if  mortal 
wisdom  might  relinquish  its  devices  now  that  an 
unearthly  usurper  had  found  his  way  into  the 
ruler’s  mansion.  Had  an  enemy’s  fleet  been  hover- 
15  ing  on  the  coast  or  his  armies  trampling  on  our 
soil,  the  people  would  probably  have  committed 
their  defence  to  that  same  direful  conqueror  who 
had  wrought  their  own  calamity  and  would  permit 
no  interference  with  this  sway.  This  conqueror 
20  had  a symbol  of  his  triumphs : it  was  a blood-red 
flag  that  fluttered  in  the  tainted  air  over  the  door 
of  every  dwelling  into  which  the  small-pox  had 
entered. 

Such  a banner  was  long  since  waving  over  the 
25  portal  of  the  Province  House,  for  thence,  as  was 
proved  by  tracing  its  footsteps  back,  had  all  this 
dreadful  mischief  issued.  It  had  been  traced  back 
to  a lady’s  luxurious  chamber,  to  the  proudest  of  the 
proud,  to  her  that  was  so  delicate  and  hardly 
30  owned  herself  of  earthly  mould,  to  the  haughty  one 
who  took  her  stand  above  human  sympathies— to 


LADY  ELEANORE’ S MANTLE 


125 


Lady  Eleanore.  There  remained  no  room  for 
doubt  that  the  contagion  had  lurked  in  that  gor- 
geous mantle  which  threw  so  strange  a grace 
around  her  at  the  festival.  Its  fantastic  splendor 
had  been  conceived  in  the  delirious  brain  of  a 
woman  on  her  death-bed  and  was  the  last  toil  of 
her  stiffening  fingers,  which  had  interwoven  fate 
and  misery  with  its  golden  threads.  This  dark 
tale,  whispered  at  first,  was  now  bruited  far  and 
wide.  The  people  raved  against  the  Lady  Eleanore, 
and  cried  out  that  her  pride  and  scorn  had 
evoked  a fiend,  and  that  between  them  both  this 
monstrous  evil  had  been  born.  At  times  their 
rage  and  despair  took  the  semblance  of  grinning 
mirth ; and  whenever  the  red  flag  of  the  pestilence 
was  hoisted  over  another  and  yet  another  door, 
they  clapped  their  hands  and  shouted  through  the 
streets  in  bitter  mockery:  “ Behold  a new  triumph 
for  the  Lady  Eleanore ! ” 

One  day  in  the  midst  of  these  dismal  times  a wild 
figure  approached  the  portal  of  the  Province  House, 
and,  folding  his  arms,  stood  contemplating  the 
scarlet  banner,  which  a passing  breeze  shook  fit- 
fully, as  if  to  fling  abroad  the  contagion  that  it 
typified.  At  length,  climbing  one  of  the  pillars  by 
means  of  the  iron  balustrade,  he  took  down  the 
flag,  and  entered  the  mansion  waving  it  above  his 
head.  At  the  foot  of  the  staircase  he  met  the 
governor,  booted  and  spurred,  with  his  cloak 
drawn  around  him,  evidently  on  the  point  of  set- 
ting forth  upon  a journey. 


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“Wretched  lunatic,  what  do  you  seek  here?” 
exclaimed  Shute,  extending  his  cane  to  guard 
himself  from  contact.  “ There  is  nothing  here  but 
Death;  back,  or  you  will  meet  him.” 

5 “ Death  will  not  touch  me,  the  banner-bearer  of 

the  pestilence,”  cried  Jervase  Helwyse,  shaking  the 
red  flag  aloft.  “Death  and  the  pestilence,  who 
wear  the  aspect  of  the  Lady  Eleanore,  will  walk 
through  the  streets  to-night,  and  I must  march 
10  before  them  with  this  banner.” 

“Why  do  I waste  words  on  the  fellow?”  mut- 
tered the  governor,  drawing  his  cloak  across  his 
mouth.  “What  matters  his  miserable  life,  when 
none  of  us  are  sure  of  twelve  hours’  breath? — On, 
15  fool,  to  your  own  destruction  ! ” 

He  made  way  for  Jervase  Helwyse,  who  immedi- 
ately ascended  the  staircase  but  on  the  first  land- 
ing place  was  arrested  by  the  firm  grasp  of  a hand 
upon  his  shoulder.  Looking  fiercely  up  with  a 
20  madman’s  impulse  to  struggle  with  and  rend  asun- 
der his  opponent,  he  found  himself  powerless 
beneath  a calm,  stern  eye  which  possessed  the 
mysterious  property  of  quelling  frenzy  at  its  height. 

The  person  whom  he  had  now  encountered  was 
25  the  physician,  Dr.  Clark,  the  duties  of  whose  sad 
profession  had  led  him  to  the  Province  House, 
where  he  was  an  infrequent  guest  in  more  pros- 
perous times. 

“ Young  man,  what  is  your  purpose  ? ” demanded 
30  he. 

“I  seek  the  Lady  Eleanore,”  answered  Jervase 
Helwyse,  submissively. 


LADY  ELEANORE’S  MANTLE 


127 


“All  have  fled  from  her,”  said  the  physician. 
“ Why  do  you  seek  her  now  ? I tell  you,  youth,  her 
nurse  fell  death-stricken  on  the  threshold  of  that 
fatal  chamber.  Know  ye  not  that  never  came  such 
a curse  to  our  shores  as  this  lovely  Lady  Eleanore, 
that  her  breath  has  filled  the  air  with  poison,  that 
she  has  shaken  pestilence  and  death  upon  the  land 
from  the  folds  of  her  accursed  mantle?  ” 

“Letmelook  uponher,”  rejoined  the  mad  youth, 
more  wildly.  “Let  me  behold  her  in  her  awful 
beauty,  clad  in  the  regal  garments  of  the  pestilence. 
She  and  Death  sit  on  a throne  together;  let  me 
kneel  down  before  them.” 

“ Poor  youth ! ” said  Dr.  Clark,  and,  moved  by  a 
deep  sense  of  human  weakness,  a smile  of  caustic 
humor  curled  his  lips  even  then.  “Wilt  thou  still 
worship  the  destroyer  and  surround  her  image  with 
fantasies  the  more  magnificent  the  more  evil  she 
has  wrought?  Thus  man  doth  ever  to  his  tyrants. 
Approach,  then.  Madness,  as  I have  noted,  has 
that  good  efficacy  that  it  will  guard  you  from  con- 
tagion, and  perhaps  its  own  cure  may  be  found 
in  yonder  chamber.”  Ascending  another  flight  of 
stairs,  he  threw  open  a door  and  signed  to  Jervase 
Helwyse  that  he  should  enter. 

The  poor  lunatic,  it  seems  probable,  had  cher- 
ished a delusion  that  his  haughty  mistress  sat  in 
state,  unharmed  herself  by  the  pestilential  influ- 
ence which  as  by  enchantment  she  scattered  round 
about  her.  He  dreamed,  no  doubt,  that  her  beauty 
was  not  dimmed,  but  brightened  into  superhuman 


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splendor.  "With  such  anticipations  he  stole  rever- 
entially to  the  door  at  which  the  physician  stood, 
but  paused  upon  the  threshold,  gazing  fearfully 
into  the  gloom  of  the  darkened  chamber. 

5 “ Where  is  the  Lady  Eleanore  ? ” whispered  he. 

“Call  her,”  replied  the  physician. 

“Lady  Eleanore!  princess!  queen  of  Death!” 
cried  Jervase  Helwyse,  advancing  three  steps  into 
the  chamber.  “ She  is  not  here.  There,  on  yonder 
10  table,  I behold  the  sparkle  of  a diamond  which 
once  she  wore  upon  her  bosom.  There” — and  he 
shuddered — “there  hangs  her  mantle,  on  which  a 
dead  woman  embroidered  a spell  of  dreadful  poten- 
cy. But  where  is  the  Lady  Eleanore?  ” 

15  Something  stirred  within  the  silken  curtains  of  a 
canopied  bed  and  a low  moan  was  uttered,  which, 
listening  intently,  Jervase  Helwyse  began  to  dis- 
tinguish as  a woman’s  voice  complaining  dolefully 
of  thirst.  He  fancied,  even,  that  he  recognized  its 
20  tones. 

“ My  throat ! My  throat  is  scorched,”  murmured 
the  voice.  “A  drop  of  water ! ” 

“ What  thing  art  thou  ? ” said  the  brain-stricken 
youth,  drawing  near  the  bed  and  tearing  asunder 
25 its  curtains.  “Whose  voice  hast  thou  stolen  for 
thy  murmurs  and  miserable  petitions,  as  if  Lady 
Eleanore  could  be  conscious  of  mortal  infirmity? 
Eie ! Heap  of  diseased  mortality,  wl^  lurkest  thou 
in  my  lady’s  chamber?  ” 

30  “ Oh,  Jervase  Helwyse,”  said  the  voice — and  as  it 

spoke  the  figure  contorted  itself,  struggling  to  hide 


LADY  ELEANORE’ S MANTLE 


129 


its  blasted  face — “look  not  now  on  the  woman  you 
once  loved.  The  curse  of  heaven  hath  stricken  me 
because  I would  not  call  man  my  brother  nor  wo- 
man sister.  I wrapped  myself  in  pride  as  in  a 
mantle  and  scorned  the  sympathies  of  nature,  and  5 
therefore  has  Nature  made  this  wretched  body  the 
medium  of  a dreadful  sympathy.  You  are  avenged, 
they  are  all  avenged,  Nature  is  avenged ; for  1 am 
Eleanore  Rochcliffe.” 

The  malice  of  his  mental  disease,  the  bitterness  10 
lurking  at  the  bottom  of  his  heart,  mad  as  he  was, 
for  a blighted  and  ruined  life  and  love  that  had 
been  paid  with  cruel  scorn,  awoke  within  the 
breast  of  Jervase  Helwyse.  He  shook  his  finger  at 
the  wretched  girl,  and  the  chamber  echoed,  the  cur- 15 
tains  of  the  bed  were  shaken,  with  his  outburst  of 
insane  merriment. 

“ Another  triumph  for  the  Lady  Eleanore!”  he 
cried.  “All  have  been  her  victims;  who  so  worthy 
to  be  the  final  victim  as  herself?  ” Impelled  by 20 
some  new  fantasy  of  his  crazed  intellect,  he  snatched 
the  fatal  mantle  and  rushed  from  the  chamber 
and  the  house. 

That  night  a procession  passed  by  torchlight 
through  the  streets,  bearing  in  the  midst  the  figure  25 
of  a woman  enveloped  with  a richly-embroidered 
mantle,  while  in  advance  stalked  Jervase  Helwyse 
waving  the  red  flag  of  the  pestilence.  Arriving 
opposite  the  Province  House,  the  mob  burned  the 
effigy,  and  a strong  wind  came  and  swept  away  30 
the  ashes.  It  was  said  that  from  that  very  hour 


130 


TWICE-TOLD  TALES 


the  pestilence  abated,  as  if  its  sway  had  some  mys- 
terious connection,  from  the  first  plague-stroke  to 
the  last,  with  Lady  Eleanore’s  mantle.  A remark- 
able uncertainty  broods  over  that  unhappy  lady’s 
5 fate.  There  is  a belief,  however,  that  in  a certain 
chamber  of  this  mansion  a female  form  may  some- 
times be  duskily  discerned  shrinking  into  the  dark- 
est corner  and  muffling  her  face  within  an  embroid- 
ered mantle.  Supposing  the  legend  true,  can  this 
10  be  other  than  the  once  proud  Lady  Eleanore? 

Mine  host  and  the  old  loyalist  and  I bestowed  no 
little  warmth  of  applause  upon  this  narrative,  in 
which  we  had  all  been  deeply  interested;  for  the 
reader  can  scarcely  conceive  how  unspeakably 
15  the  effect  of  such  a tale  is  heightened  when,  as  in 
the  present  case,  we  may  repose  perfect  confidence 
in  the  veracity  of  him  who  tells  it.  For  my  own 
part,  knowing  how  scrupulous  is  Mr.  Tiffany  to  set- 
tle the  foundation  of  his  facts,  I could  not  have 
20  believed  him  one  whit  the  more  faithfully  had  he 
professed  himself  an  eye-witness  of  the  doings  and 
sufferings  of  poor  Lady  Eleanore.  Some  sceptics, 
it  is  true,  might  demand  documentary  evidence,  or 
even  require  him  to  produce  the  embroidered 
25 mantle,  forgetting  that — Heaven  be  praised! — it 
was  consumed  to  ashes. 

But  now  the  old  loyalist,  whose  blood  was 
warmed  by  the  good  cheer,  began  to  talk,  in  his 
turn,  about  the  traditions  of  the  Province  House, 
30  and  hinted  that  he,  if  it  were  agreeable,  might  add 
a few  reminiscences  to  our  legendary  stock.  Mr. 


OLD  ESTHER  DUDLEY 


131 


Tiffau y,  having  no  cause  to  dread  a rival,  immedi- 
ately besought  him  to  favor  us  with  a specimen ; 
my  own  entreaties,  of  course,  were  urged  to  the 
same  effect ; and  our  venerable  guest,  well  pleased 
to  find  willing  auditors,  awaited  only  the  return  of  5 
Mr.  Thomas  Waite,  who  had  been  summoned  forth 
to  provide  accommodations  for  several  new  arri- 
vals. Perchance  the  public — but  be  this  as  its  own 
caprice  and  ours  shall  settle  the  matter — may  read 
the  result  in  another  tale  of  the  Province  House.  10 


OLD  ESTHER  DUDLEY 


Our  host  having  resumed  the  chair,  he  as  well  as 
Mr.  Tiffany  and  myself  expressed  much  eagerness 
to  be  made  acquainted  with  the  story  to  which  the 
loyalist  had  alluded.  That  venerable  man  first  of 
all  saw  fit  to  moisten  his  throat  with  another  glass  15 
of  wine,  and  then  turning  his  face  toward  our  coal- 
fire,  looked  steadfastly  for  a few  moments  into  the 
depths  of  its  cheerful  glow.  Finally  he  poured 
forth  a great  fluency  of  speech.  The  generous 
liquid  that  he  had  imbibed,  while  it  warmed  his  20 
age-chilled  blood,  like  wise  to  ok  off  the  chill  from  his 
heart  and  mind,  and  gave  him  an  energy  to  think 


132 


TWICE-TOLD  TALES 


and  feel  which  we  could  hardly  have  expected  to  find 
beneath  the  snows  of  fourscore  winters.  His  feel- 
ings, indeed,  appeared  to  me  more  excitable  than 
those  of  a younger  man — or,  at  least,  the  same  de- 
5 gree  of  feeling  manifested  itself  by  more  visible 
effects  than  if  his  judgment  and  will  had  possessed 
the  potency  of  meridian  life.  At  the  pathetic  pas- 
sages of  his  narrative  he  readily  melted  into  tears. 
When  a breath  of  indignation  swept  across  his 
10  spirit,  the  blood  flushed  his  withered  visage  even 
to  the  roots  of  his  white  hair,  and  he  shook  his 
clinched  fist  at  the  trio  of  peaceful  auditors,  seem- 
ing to  fancy  enemies  in  those  who  felt  very  kindly  to- 
ward the  desolate  old  soul.  But  ever  and  anon, 
15  sometimes  in  the  midst  of  his  most  earnest  talk, 
this  ancient  person’s  intellect  would  wander  vague- 
ly, losing  its  hold  of  the  matter  in  hand  and 
groping  for  it  amid  misty  Shadows.  Then  would  ' 
he  cackle  forth  a feeble  laugh  and  express  a doubt 
20  whether  his  wits— for  by  that  phrase  it  pleased  our 
ancient  friend  to  signify  his  mental  powers— were 
not  getting  a little  the  worse  for  wear. 

Under  these  disadvantages,  the  old  loyalist’s 
story  required  more  revision  to  render  it  fit  for  the 
25  public  eye  than  those  of  the  series  which  have  pre- 
ceded it ; nor  should  it  be  concealed  that  the  senti- 
ment and  tone  of  the  affair  may  have  undergone 
some  slight— or  perchance  more  than  slight— meta- 
morphosis in  its  transmission  to  the  reader, 
30  through  the  medium  of  a thorough-going  democrat. 
The  tale  itself  is  a mere  sketch  with  no  involution 


OLD  ESTHER  DUDLEY 


133 


of  plot  nor  any  great  interest  of  events,  yet  pos- 
sessing, if  1 have  rehearsed  it  aright,  that  pensive 
influence  over  the  mind  which  the  shadow  of  the 
old  Province  House  flings  upon  the  loiterer  in  its 
courtyard.  5 

The  hour  had  come — the  hour  of  defeat  and  hu- 
miliation— when  Sir  William  Howe  was  to  pass 
over  the  threshold  of  the  Province  House  and  em- 
bark, with  no  such  triumphal  ceremonies  as  he 
once  promised  himself,  on  board  the  British  fleet.  10 
He  bade  his  servants  and  military  attendants  go 
before  him,  and  lingered  a moment  in  the  loneli- 
ness of  the  mansion  to  quell  the  fierce  emotions 
that  struggled  in  his  bosom  as  with  a deaththrob. 
Preferable  then  would  he  have  deemed  his  fate  had  15 
a warrior’s  death  left  him  a claim  to  the  narrow 
territory  of  a grave  within  the  soil  which  the  king 
had  given  him  to  defend.  With  an  ominous  per- 
ception that  as  his  departing  footsteps  echoed 
down  the  staircase  the  sway  of  Britain  was  passing  20 
forever  from  New  England,  he  smote  his  clinched 
hand  on  his  brow  and  cursed  the  destiny  that  had 
flung  the  shame  of  a dismembered  empire  upon 
him. 

“Would  to  God,”  cried  he,  hardly  repressing  his  25 
tears  of  rage,  “that  the  rebels  were  even  now  at 
the  doorstep ! A blood-stain  upon  the  floor  should 
then  bear  testimony  that  the  last  British  ruler  was 
faithful  to  his  trust.” 

The  tremulous  voice  of  a woman  replied  to  his  30 
exclamation. 


134 


TWICE-TOLD  TALES 


“Heaven’s  cause  and  the  king’s  are  one,”  it  said. 
“ Go  forth,  Sir  William  Howe,  and  trust  in  Heaven 
to  bring  back  a royal  governor  in  triumph.” 

Subduing  at  once  the  passion  to  which  he  had 
5 yielded  only  in  the  faith  that  it  was  unwitnessed, 
Sir  William  Howe  became  conscious  that  an  aged 
woman  leaning  on  a gold-headed  staff  was  stand- 
ing betwixt  him  and  the  door.  It  was  old  Esther 
Dudley,  who  had  dwelt  almost  immeihorial  years 
loin  this  mansion,  until  her  presence  seemed  as  in- 
separable from  it  as  the  recollections  of  its  history. 
She  was  the  daughter  of  an  ancient  and  once  em- 
inent family  which  had  fallen  into  poverty  and 
decay,  and  left  its  last  descendant  no  resource  save 
15  the  bounty  of  the  king,  nor  any  shelter  except 
within  the  walls  of  the  Province  House.  An  office 
in  the  household  with  merely  nominal  duties  had 
been  assigned  to  her  as  a pretext  for  the  payment 
of  a small  pension,  the  greater  part  of  which  she 
20  expended  in  adorning  herself  with  an  antique  mag- 
nificence of  attire.  The  claims  of  Esther  Dudley’s 
gentle  blood  were  acknowledged  by  all  the  succes- 
sive governors,  and  they  treated  her  with  the 
punctilious  courtesy  which  it  was  her  foible  to  de- 
25  maud,  not  always  with  success,  from  a neglectful 
world.  The  only  actual  share  which  she  assumed 
in  the  business  of  the  mansion  was  to  glide  through 
its  passages  and  public  chambers  late  at  night  to 
see  that  the  servants  had  dropped  no  fire  from 
30  their  flaring  torches  nor  left  embers  crackling  and 
blazing  on  the  hearths.  Perhaps  it  was  this  invari- 


OLD  ESTHER  DUDLEY  135 

able  custom  of  walking  her  rounds  in  the  hush  of 
midnight  that  caused  the  superstition  of  the  times 
to  invest  the  old  woman  with  attributes  of  awe 
and  mystery,  fabling  that  she  had  entered  the  por- 
tal of  the  Province  House — none  knew  whence — in 
the  train  of  the  first  royal  governor,  and  that  it 
washer  fate  to  dwell  there  till  the  last  should  have 
departed. 

But  Sir  William  Howe,  if  he  ever  heard  this  le- 
gend, had  forgotten  it. 

“Mistress  Dudley,  why  are  you  loitering  here?” 
asked  he,  with  some  severity  of  tone.  “It  is  my 
pleasure  to  be  the  last  in  this  mansion  of  the  king.” 

“Not  so,  if  it  please  Your  Excellency,”  answered 
the  time-stricken  woman.  “ This  roof  has  sheltered 
me  long ; I will  not  pass  from  it  until  they  bear  me 
to  the  tomb  of  my  forefathers.  What  other  shelter 
is  there  for  old  Esther  Dudley  save  the  Province 
House  or  the  grave?  ” 

“Now,  Heaven  forgive  me! ’’said  Sir  William 
Howe  to  himself.  “I  was  about  to  leave  this 
wretched  old  creature  to  starve  or  beg.— Take  this, 
good  Mistress  Dudley,”  he  added,  putting  a purse 
into  her  hands.  “ King  George’s  head  on  these  gold- 
en guineas  is  sterling  yet,  and  will  continue  so,  I war- 
rant you,  even  should  the  rebels  crown  John  Han- 
cock their  king.  That  purse  will  buy  a better 
shelter  than  the  Province  House  can  now  afford.” 

“ While  the  burden  of  life  remains  upon  me  I will 
have  no  other  shelter  than  this  roof,”  persisted 
Esther  Dudley,  striking  her  staff  upon  the  floor 


5 

i 

10 

15 

20 

25 

30 


136 


TWICE-TOLD  TALES 


with  a gesture  that  expressed  immovable  resolve ; 
“and  when  Your  Excellency  returns  in  triumph,  I 
will  totter  into  the  porch  to  welcome  you.” 

“My  poor  old  friend!”  answered  the  British 
5 general,  and  all  his  manly  and  martial  pride  could 
no  longer  restrain  a gush  of  bitter  tears.  “ This  is 
an  evil  hour  for  you  and  me.  The  province  which 
the  king  entrusted  to  my  charge  is  lost.  I go  hence 
in  misfortune — perchance  in  disgrace — to  return  no 
10  more.  And  you,  whose  present  being  is  incorpo- 
rated with  the  past,  who  have  seen  governor  after 
governor  in  stately  pageantry  ascend  these  steps, 
whose  whole  life  has  been  an  observance  of  majestic 
ceremonies  and  a worship  of  the  king, — how  will 
15 you  endure  the  change?  Come  with  us;  bid  fare- 
well to  a land  that  has  shaken  off  its  allegiance, 
and  live  still  under  a royal  government  at 
Halifax.” 

“Never!  never!”  said  the  pertinacious  old  dame. 
20  “ Here  will  I abide,  and  King  George  shall  still  have 
one  true  subject  in  his  disloyal  Province.” 

“Beshrew  the  old  fool!”  muttered  Sir  William 
Howe,  growing  impatient  of  her  obstinacy  and 
ashamed  of  the  emotion  into  which  he  had  been 
25  betrayed.  “ She  is  the  very  moral  of  old-fashioned 
prejudice,  and  could  exist  nowhere  but  in  this 
musty  edifice. — Well,  then,  Mistress  Dudley,  since 
you  will  needs  tarry,  I give  the  Province  House  in 
charge  to  you.  Take  this  key,  and  keep  it  safe 
30  until  myself  or  some  other  royal  governor  shall 
demand  it  of  you.”  Smiling  bitterly  at  himself  and 


OLD  ESTHER  DUDLEY 


137 


her,  he  took  the  key  of  the  Province  House,  and, 
delivering  it  into  the  old  lady’s  hands,  drew  his 
cloak  around  him  for  departure. 

As  the  general  glanced  back  at  Esther  Dudley’s 
antique  figure  he  deemed  her  well  fitted  for  such  a 5 
charge,  as  being  so  perfect  a representative  of  the 
decayed  past — of  an  age  gone  by,  with  its  manners, 
opinions,  faith  and  feelings  all  fallen  into  oblivion 
or  scorn,  of  what  had  once  been  a reality,  but  was 
now  merely  a vision  of  faded  magnificence.  Then  10 
Sir  William  Howe  strode  forth,  smiting  his  clinched 
hands  together  in  the  fierce  anguish  of  his  spirit, 
and  old  Esther  Dudley  was  left  to  keep  watch  in 
the  lonely  Province  House,  dwelling  there  with 
Memory;  and  if  Hope  ever  seemed  to  flit  around  15 
her,  still  it  was  Memory  in  disguise. 

The  total  change  of  affairs  that  ensued  on  the 
departure  of  the  British  troops  did  not  drive  the 
venerable  lady  from  her  stronghold.  There  was 
not  for  many  years  afterward  a governor  of  20 
Massachusetts,  and  the  magistrates  who  had 
charge  of  such  matters  saw  no  objection  to  Esther 
Dudley’s  residence  in  the  Province  House,  especially 
as  they  must  otherwise  have  paid  a hireling  for 
taking  care  of  the  premises,  which  with  her  was  a 25 
labor  of  love ; and  so  they  left  her  the  undisturbed 
mistress  of  the  old  historic  edifice.  Many  and 
strange  were  the  fables  which  the  gossips  whispered 
about  her  in  all  the  chimney-corners  of  the  town. 

Among  the  time-worn  articles  of  furniture  that  30 
had  been  left  in  the  mansion,  there  was  a tall 


138 


TWICE-TOLD  TALES 


antique  mirror  which  was  well  worthy  of  a tale  by 
itself,  and  perhaps  may  hereafter  be  the  theme  of 
one.  The  gold  of  its  heavily-wrought  frame  was 
tarnished,  and  its  surface  so  blurred  that  the  old 
5 woman’s  figure,  whenever  she  paused  before  it, 
looked  indistinct  and  ghostlike.  But  it  was  the 
general  belief  that  Esther  could  cause  the  governors 
of  the  overthrown  dynasty,  with  the  beautiful 
ladies  who  had  once  adorned  their  festivals,  the 
10  Indian  chiefs  who  had  come  up  to  the  Province 
House  to  hold  council  or  swear  allegiance,  the  grim 
Provincial  warriors,  the  severe  clergymen — in 
short,  all  the  pageantry  of  gone  days,  all  the 
figures  that  ever  swept  across  the  broad  plate  of 
15  glass  in  former  times, — she  could  cause  the  whole 
to  reappear  and  people  the  inner  world  of  the 
mirror  with  shadows  of  old  life.  Such  legends  as 
these,  together  with  the  singularity  of  her  isolated 
existence,  her  age  and  the  infirmity  that  each 
20  added  winter  flung  upon  her,  made  Mistress  Dudley 
the  object  both  of  fear  and  pity,  and  it  was  partly 
the  result  of  either  sentiment  that,  amid  all  the 
angry  licence  of  the  times,  neither  wrong  nor 
insult  ever  fell  upon  her  unprotected  head.  Indeed, 
25  there  was  so  much  haughtiness  in  her  demeanor 
toward  intruders — among  whom  she  reckoned  all 
persons  acting  under  the  new  authorities — that  it 
was  really  an  affair  of  no  small  nerve  to  look  her 
in  the  face.  And,  to  do  the  people  justice,  stern 
30  republicans  as  they  had  now  become,  they  were 
well  content  that  the  old  gentlewoman,  in  her 


OLD  ESTHER  DUDLEY 


139 


hoop-petticoat  and  faded  embroidery,  should  still 
haunt  the  palace  of  ruined  pride  and  over-thrown 
power,  the  symbol  of  a departed  system,  embody- 
ing a history  in  her  person.  So  Esther  Dudley 
dwelt  year  after  year  in  the  Province  House,  still 
reverencing  all  that  others  had  flung  aside,  still 
faithful  to  her  king,  who,  so  long  as  the  venerable 
dame  yet  held  her  post,  might  be  said  to  retain  one 
true  subject  in  New  England  and  one  spot  of  the 
empire  that  had  been  wrested  from  him. 

And  did  she  dwell  there  in  utter  loneliness  ? Ru- 
mor said,  “Not  so.”  Whenever  her  chill  and 
withered  heart  desired  warmth,  she  was  wont  to 
summon  a black  slave  of  Governor  Shirley’s  from 
the  blurred  mirror  and  send  him  in  search  of  guests 
who  had  long  ago  been  familiar  in  those  deserted 
chambers.  Forth  went  the  sable  messenger,  with 
the  starlight  or  the  moonshine  gleaming  through 
him,  and  did  his  errand  in  the  burial  grounds,  knock- 
ing at  the  iron  doors  of  tombs,  or  upon  the  marble 
slabs  that  covered  them,  and  whispering  to  those 
within,  “My  mistress,  old  Esther  Dudley, bids  you 
to  the  Province  House  at  midnight;”  and  punc- 
tually as  the  clock  of  the  Old  South  told  twelve 
came  the  shadows  of  the  Olivers,  the  Hutchinsons, 
the  Dudleys — all  the  grandees  of  a bygone  genera- 
tion— gliding  through  the  portal  into  the  well- 
known  mansion,  where  Esther  mingled  with  them 
as  if  she  likewise  were  a shade.  Without  vouching 
for  the  truth  of  such  traditions  it  is  certain  that 
Mistress  Dudley  sometimes  assembled  a few  of  the 


5 

10 

15 

20 

25 

30 


140 


TWICE-TOLD  TALES 


staunch  though  crestfallen  old  Tories  who  had 
lingered  in  the  rebel  town  during  those  days  of 
wrath  and  tribulation.  Out  of  a cobwebbed  bottle 
containing  liquor  that  a royal  governor  might  have 
5 smacked  his  lips  over  they  quaffed  healths  to  the 
king  and  babbled  treason  to  the  republic,  feeling  as 
if  the  protecting  shadow  of  the  throne  were  still 
flung  around  them.  But,  draining  the  last  drops 
of  their  liquor,  they  stole  timorously  homeward, 
10  and  answered  not  again  if  the  rude  mob  reviled  them 
in  the  street. 

Yet  Esther  Dudley’s  most  frequent  and  favored 
guests  were  the  children  of  the  town.  Toward 
them  she  was  never  stern.  A kind  and  loving 
15  nature  hindered  elsewhere  from  its  free  course  by  a 
thousand  rocky  prejudices  lavished  itself  upon 
these  little  ones.  By  bribes  of  gingerbread  of  her 
own  making  stamped  with  a royal  crown,  she  tempt- 
ed their  sunny  sportiveness  beneath  the  gloomy 
20  portal  of  the  Province  House,  and  would  often 
beguile  them  to  spend  a whole  play-day  there, 
sitting  in  a circle  round  the  verge  of  her  hoop- 
petticoat,  greedily  attentive  to  her  stories  of  a 
dead  world.  And  when  these  little  boys  and  girls 
25  stole  forth  again  from  the  dark  mysterious  man- 
sion, they  went  bewildered,  full  of  old  feelings  that 
graver  people  had  long  ago  forgotten,  rubbing 
their  eyes  at  the  world  around  them  as  if  they  had 
gone  astray  into  ancient  times  and  become  children 
30  of  the  past.  At  home  when  their  parents  asked 
where  they  had  loitered  such  a weary  while  and 


OLD  ESTHER  DUDLEY 


141 


with  whom  they  had  been  at  play,  the  children 
would  talk  of  all  the  departed  worthies  of  the 
province,  as  far  back  as  Governor  Belcher  and  the 
haughty  dame  of  Sir  William  Phipps.  It  would 
seem  as  though  they  had  been  sitting  on  the  knees  5 
of  these  famous  personages,  whom  the  grave  had 
hidden  for  half  a century,  and  had  toyed  with 
the  embroidery  of  their  rich  waist-coats  or  rogu- 
ishly pulled  the  long  curls  of  their  flowing  wigs. 

“ But  Governor  Belcher  has  been  dead  this  many  10 
a year,”  would  the  mother  say  to  her  little  boy. 
“And  did  you  really  see  him  at  the  Province 
House?” — “Oh  yes,  dear  mother — yes!”  the  half- 
dreaming  child  would  answer.  “But  when  old 
Esther  had  done  speaking  about  him,  he  faded  15 
away  out  of  his  chair.”  Thus  without  affrighting 
her  little  guests,  she  led  them  by  the  hand  into  the 
chambers  of  her  own  desolate  heart  and  made 
childhood’s  fancy  discern  the  ghosts  that  haunted 
there.  20 

Living  so  continually  in  her  own  circle  of  ideas, 
and  never  regulating  her  mind  by  a proper  reference 
to  present  things,  Esther  Dudley  appears  to  have 
grown  partially  crazed.  It  was  found  that  she  had 
no  right  sense  of  the  progress  and  true  state  of  the  25 
Revolutionary  war,  but  held  a constant  faith  that 
the  armies  of  Britain  were  victorious  on  every  field 
and  destined  to  be  ultimately  triumphant.  When- 
ever the  town  rejoiced  for  a battle  won  by 
Washington  or  Gates  or  Morgan  or  Greene,  the  30 
news,  in  passing  through  the  door  of  the  Province 


142 


TWICE-TOLD  TALES 


House,  as  through  the  ivory  gate  of  dreams,  be- 
came metamorphosed  into  a strange  tale  of  the 
prowess  of  Howe,  Clinton,  or  Cornwallis.  Sooner 
or  later,  it  was  her  invincible  belief,  the  colonies 
6 would  be  prostrate  at  the  footstool  of  the  king. 
Sometimes  she  seemed  to  take  for  granted  that 
such  was  already  the  case.  On  one  occasion  she 
startled  the  townspeople  by  a brilliant  illumina- 
tion of  the  Province  House  with  candles  at  every 
10  pane  of  glass,  and  a transparency  of  the  king’s 
initials  and  a crown  of  light  in  the  great  balcony 
window.  The  figure  of  the  aged  woman  in  the 
most  gorgeous  of  her  mildewed  velvets  and  bro- 
cades was  seen  passing  from  casement  to  casement, 
15  until  she  paused  before  the  balcony  and  flourished 
a huge  key  above  her  head.  Her  wrinkled  visage 
actually  gleamed  with  triumph,  as  if  the  soul 
within  her  were  a festal  lamp. 

“What  means  this  blaze  of  light?  What  does 
20 old  Esther’s  joy  portend?”  whispered  a spectator. 
“It  is  frightful  to  see  her  gliding  about  the 
chambers  and  rejoicing  there  without  a soul  to 
bear  her  company.” 

“It  is  as  if  she  were  making  merry  in  a tomb,” 
25  said  another. 

“Pshaw!  It  is  no  such  mystery,”  observed  an 
old  man,  after  some  brief  exercise  of  memory. 
“Mistress  Dudley  is  keeping  jubilee  for  the  king  of 
England’s  birthday.” 

30  Then  the  people  laughed  aloud,  and  would  have 
thrown  mud  against  the  blazing  transparency  of 


OLD  ESTHER  DUDLEY 


143 


the  king’s  crown  and  initials,  only  that  they  pitied 
the  poor  old  dame  who  was  so  dismally  triumphant 
amid  the  wreck  and  ruin  of  the  system  to  which  she 
appertained. 

Oftentimes  it  was  her  custom  to  climb  the  weary  5 
stair-case  that  wound  upward  to  the  cupola,  and 
thence  strain  her  dimmed  eyesight  seaward  and 
country  ward,  watching  for  a British  fleet  or  for  the 
march  of  a grand  procession  with  the  king’s 
banner  floating  over  it.  The  passengers  in  theio 
street  below  would  discern  her  anxious  visage  and 
send  up  a shout : “ When  the  golden  Indian  on  the 
Province  House  shall  shoot  his  arrow,  and  when 
the  cock  on  the  Old  South  spire  shall  crow,  then 
look  for  a royal  governor  again!”  for  this  had  15 
grown  a by-word  through  the  town.  And  at  last, 
after  long,  long  years,  old  Esther  Dudley  knew — or 
perchance  she  only  dreamed — that  a royal  governor 
was  on  the  eve  of  returning  to  the  Province  House 
to  receive  the  heavy  key  which  Sir  William  Howe  20 
had  committed  to  her  charge.  Now,  it  was  the 
fact  that  intelligence  bearing  some  faint  analogy  to 
Esther’s  version  of  it  was  current  among  the  towns- 
people. She  set  the  mansion  in  the  best  order  that 
her  means  allowed,  and,  arraying  herself  in  silks  25 
and  tarnished  gold,  stood  long  before  the  blurred 
mirror  to  admire  her  own  magnificence.  As  she 
gazed,  the  gray  and  withered  lady  moved  her  ashen 
lips,  murmuring  half  aloud,  talking  to  shapes  that 
she  saw  within  the  mirror,  to  shadows  of  her  own  30 
fantasies,  to  the  household  friends  of  memory,  and 


144 


TWICE-TOLD  TALES 


bidding  them  rejoice  with  her  and  come  forth  to 
meet  the  governor.  And  while  absorbed  in  this 
communion  Mistress  Dudley  heard  the  tramp  of 
many  footsteps  in  the  street,  and  looking  out  at 
5 the  window,  beheld  what  she  construed  as  the 
royal  governor’s  arrival. 

“Oh,  happy  day!  Oh,  blessed,  blessed  hour!” 
she  exclaimed.  “ Let  me  but  bid  him  welcome 
within  the  portal,  and  my  task  in  the  Province 
10  House  and  on  earth  is  done.”  Then,  with  totter- 
ing feet  which  age  and  tremulous  joy  caused  to 
tread  amiss,  she  hurried  down  the  grand  staircase, 
her  silks  sweeping  and  rustling  as  she  went;  so 
that  the  sound  was  as  if  a train  of  special  courtiers 
15  were  thronging  from  the  dim  mirror. 

And  Esther  Dudley  fancied  that  as  soon  as  the 
wide  door  should  be  flung  open  all  the  pomp  and 
splendor  of  bygone  times  would  pace  majestically 
into  the  Province  House  and  the  gilded  tapestry 
20  of  the  past  would  be  brightened  by  the  sunshine  of 
the  present.  She  turned  the  key,  withdrew  it  from 
the  lock,  unclosed  the  door  and  stepped  across  the 
threshold.  Advancing  up  the  courtyard  appeared 
a person  of  most  dignified  mien,  with  tokens,  as 
25  Esther  interpreted  them,  of  gentle  blood,  high  rank 
and  long-accustomed  authority  even  in  his  walk 
and  every  gesture.  He  was  richly  dressed,  but 
wrore  a gouty  shoe,  which,  however,  did  not  lessen 
the  stateliness  of  his  gait.  Around  and  behind  him 
30  were  people  in  plain  civic  dresses  and  two  or  three 
war-worn  veterans — evidently  officers  of  rank — ar- 


OLD  ESTHER  DUDLEY 


145 


rayed  in  a uniform  of  blue  and  buff.  But  Esther 
Dudley,  firm  in  the  belief  that  had  fastened  its 
roots  about  her  heart,  beheld  only  the  principal 
personage,  and  never  doubted  that  this  was  the 
long-looked-for  governor  to  whom  she  was  to  sur- 
render up  her  charge.  As  he  approached  she  invol- 
untarily sank  down  on  her  knees  and  tremblingly 
held  forth  the  heavy  key. 

“Deceive  my  trust!  Take  it  quickly,”  cried  she, 
“ for  methinks  Death  is  striving  to  snatch  away 
my  triumph.  But  he  comes  too  late.  Thank 
Heaven  for  this  blessed  hour!  God  save  King 
George! ” 

“That,  madam,  is  a strange  prayer  to  be  offered 
up  at  such  a moment,”  replied  the  unknown  guest 
of  the  Province  House,  and,  courteously  removing 
his  hat,  he  offered  his  arm  to  raise  the  aged  woman. 
“Yet,  in  reverence  for  your  gray  hairs  and  long- 
kept  faith,  Heaven  forbid  that  any  here  should  say 
you  nay.  Over  the  realms  wThich  still  acknowledge 
his  sceptre,  God  save  King  George!  ” 

Esther  Dudley  started  to  her  feet,  and,  hastily 
clutching  back  the  key,  gazed  with  fearful  earnest- 
ness at  the  stranger,  and  dimly  and  doubtfully,  as 
if  suddenly  awakened  from  a dream,  her  bewildered 
eyes  half  recognized  his  face.  Years  ago  she  had 
known  him  among  the  gentry  of  the  Province,  but 
the  ban  of  the  king  had  fallen  upon  him.  How, 
then,  came  the  doomed  victim  here?  Proscribed, 
excluded  from  mercy,  the  monarch’s  most  dread- 
ed and  hated  foe,  this  New  England  merchant  had 


5 

10 

15 

20 

25 

30 


146 


TWICE-TOLD  TALES 


stood  triumphantly  against  a kingdom’s  strength, 
and  his  foot  now  trod  upon  humbled  royalty  as  he 
ascended  the  steps  of  the  Province  House,  the 
people’s  chosen  governor  of  Massachusetts. 

5 “Wretch,  wretch  that  I am!”  muttered  the  old 
woman,  with  such  a heartbroken  expression  that 
the  tears  gushed  from  the  stranger’s  eyes.  “ Have 
I bidden  a traitor  welcome? — Come,  Death!  come 
quickly ! ” 

10  “Alas,  venerable  lady ! ” said  Governor  Hancock, 
lending  her  his  support  with  all  the  reverence  that 
a courtier  would  have  shown  to  a queen,  “your  life 
has  been  prolonged  until  the  world  has  changed 
around  you.  You  have  treasured  up  all  that  time 
15  has  rendered  worthless — the  principles,  feelings, 
manners,  modes  of  being  and  acting  which  another 
generation  has  flung  aside — and  you  are  a symbol  of 
the  past.  And  I and  these  around  me — we  represent 
a new  race  of  men,  living  no  longer  in  the  past, 
20  scarcely  in  the  present,  but  projecting  our  lives 
forward  into  the  future.  Ceasing  to  model  our- 
selves on  ancestral  superstitions,  it  is  our  faith  and 
principle  to  press  onward — onward. — Yet,”  con- 
tinued he, turning  to  his  attendants,  “let  us  rever- 
25ence  for  the  last  time  the  stately  and  gorgeous 
prejudices  of  the  tottering  past.” 

While  the  republican  governor  spoke  he  had  con- 
tinued to  support  the  helpless  form  of  Esther 
Dudley ; her  'weight  grew  heavier  against  his  arm, 
30  but  at  last,  with  a sudden  effort  to  free  herself,  the 
ancient  woman  sank  down  beside  one  of  the  pillars 


147 


OLD  ESTHER  DUDLEY 

of  the  portal.  The  key  of  the  Province  House  fell 
from  her  grasp  and  clanked  against  the  stone. 

“I  have  been  faithful  unto  death,”  murmured 
she.  “ God  save  the  king ! ” 

“She  hath  done  her  office,”  said  Hancock  sol- 5 
emnly.  “ We  will  follow  her  reverently  to  the  tomb 
of  her  ancestors,  and  then,  my  fellow-citizens,  on- 
ward— onward.  We  are  no  longer  children  of  the 
past.” 

As  the  old  loyalist  concluded  his  narrative  the  10 
enthusiasm  which  had  been  fitfully  flashing  within 
his  sunken  eyes  and  quivering  across  his  wrinkled 
visage  faded  away,  as  if  all  the  lingering  fire  of  his 
soul  were  extinguished.  Just  then,  too,  a lamp 
upon  the  mantel-piece  threw  out  a dying  gleam,  15 
which  vanished  as  speedily  as  it  shot  upward, 
compelling  our  eyes  to  grope  for  one  another’s 
features  by  the  dim  glow  of  the  hearth.  With  such 
a lingering  fire,  methought,  with  such  a dying 
gleam,  had  the  glory  of  the  ancient  system  van- 20 
ished  from  the  Province  House  when  the  spirit  of 
old  Esther  Dudley  took  its  flight.  And  now,  again, 
the  clock  of  the  Old  South  threw  its  voice  of  ages 
on  the  breeze,  knollingthe  hourly  knell  of  the  past, 
crying  out  far  and  wide  through  the  multitudinous  25 
city,  and  filling  our  ears,  as  we  sat  in  the  dusky 
chamber,  with  its  reverberating  depth  of  tone.  In 
that  same  mansion — in  that  very  chamber — what 
a volume  of  history  had  been  told  off  into  hours 
by  the  same  voice  that  was  now  trembling  in  the  30 
air ! Many  a governor  had  heard  those  midnight 


148 


TWICE-TOLD  TALES 


accents,  and  longed  to  exchange  his  stately  cares 
for  slumber.  And,  as  for  mine  host  and  Mr.  Bela 
Tiffany  and  the  old  loyalist  and  me,  we  had  bab- 
bled about  dreams  of  the  past  until  we  almost 
5 fancied  that  the  clock  was  still  striking  in  a by- 
gone century.  Neither  of  us  would  have  wondered 
had  a hoop-petticoated  phantom  of  Esther  Dudley 
tottered  into  the  chamber,  walking  her  rounds  in  the 
hush  of  midnight  as  of  yore,  and  motioned  us  to 
10  quench  the  fading  embers  of  the  fire  and  leave  the 
historic  precincts  to  herself  and  her  kindred  shades. 
But,  as  no  such  vision  was  vouchsafed,  I retired 
unbidden,  and  would  advise  Mr.  Tiffany  to  lay 
hold  of  another  auditor,  being  resolved  not  to 
15  show  my  face  in  the  Province  House  for  a good 
while  hence — if  ever. 


THE  GREAT  CARBUNCLE1 


A MYSTERY  OF  THE  WHITE  MOUNTAINS 

At  nightfall  once,  in  the  olden  time,  on  the  rug- 
ged side  of  one  of  the  Crystal  Hills,  a party  of  adven- 
turers were  refreshing  themselves,  after  a toilsome 
and  fruitless  quest  for  the  Great  Carbuncle.  They 
had  come  thither,  not  as  friends  nor  partners  in  the 
enterprise,  but  each,  save  one  youthful  pair,  im- 
pelled by  his  own  selfish  and  solitary  longing  for 
this  wondrous  gem.  Their  feeling  of  brotherhood, 
however,  was  strong  enough  to  induce  them  to 
contribute  a mutual  aid  in  building  a rude  hut  of 
branches,  and  kindling  a great  fire  of  shattered 
pines  that  had  drifted  down  the  headlong  current 
of  the  Amonoosuck,  on  the  lower  bank  of  which 
they  were  to  pass  the  night.  There  was  but  one 
of  their  number,  perhaps,  who  had  become  so  es- 
tranged from  natural  sympathies,  by  the  absorb- 
ing spell  of  the  pursuit,  as  to  acknowledge  no  sat- 
isfaction at  the  sight  of  human  faces,  in  the  remote 
and  solitary  region  whither  they  had  ascended.  A 
vast  extent  of  wilderness  lay  between  them  and  the 
nearest  settlement,  while  scant  a mile  above  their 

l The  Indian  tradition,  on  which  this  somewhat  extravagant  tale  is  founded, 
is  both  too  wild  and  too  beautiful  to  be  adequately  wrought  up  in  prose.  Sulli- 
van, in  his  u History  of  Maine,”  written  since  the  Revolution,  remarks,  that  even 
then  the  existence  of  the  Great  Carbuncle  was  not  entirely  discredited. 


5 

10 

15 

20 


149 


150 


TWICE-TOLD  TALES 


heads,  was  that  bleak  verge,  where  the  hills  throw 
off  their  shaggy  mantle  of  forest  trees,  and  either 
robe  themselves  in  clouds,  or  tower  naked  into  the 
sky.  The  roar  of  the  Amonoosuck  would  have 
5 been  too  awful  for  endurance,  if  only  a solitary 
man  had  listened,  while  the  mountain  stream 
talked  with  the  wind. 

The  adventurers,  therefore,  exchanged  hospitable 
greetings,  and  welcomed  one  another  to  the  hut, 
10  where  each  man  was  the  host,  and  all  were  the 
guests  of  the  whole  company.  They  spread  their 
individual  supplies  of  food  on  the  flat  surface  of 
a rock,  and  partook  of  a general  repast;  at  the 
close  of  which,  a sentiment  of  good  fellowship  was 
15  perceptible  among  the  party,  though  repressed  by 
the  idea,  that  the  renewed  search  for  the  Great 
Carbuncle  must  make  them  strangers  again  in  the 
morning.  Seven  men  and  one  young  woman,  they 
warmed  themselves  together  at  the  fire,  which  ex- 
20  tended  its  bright  wall  along  the  whole  front  of 
their  wigwam.  As  they  observed  the  various  and 
contrasted  figures  that  made  up  the  assemblage, 
each  man  looking  like  a caricature  of  himself,  in 
the  unsteady  light  that  flickered  over  him,  they 
25  came  mutually  to  the  conclusion,  that  an  odder 
society  had  never  met,  in  city  or  wilderness,  on 
mountain  or  plain. 

The  eldest  of  the  group,  a tall,  lean,  weather- 
beaten man,  some  sixty  years  of  age,  was  clad  in 
30  the  skins  of  wild  animals,  whose  fashion  of  dress 
he  did  well  to  imitate,  since  the  deer,  the  wolf,  and 


THE  GREAT  CARBUNCLE  151 

the  bear,  had  long  been  his  most  intimate  com- 
panions. He  was  one  of  those  ill-fated  mortals, 
such  as  the  Indians  told  of,  whom,  in  their  early 
youth,  the  Great  Carbuncle  smote  with  a peculiar 
madness,  and  became  the  passionate  dream  of 
their  existence.  All  who  visited  that  region  knew 
him  as  the  Seeker,  and  by  no  other  name.  As 
none  could  remember  when  he  first  took  up  the 
search,  there  went  a fable  in  the  valley  of  the  Saco, 
that  for  his  inordinate  lust  after  the  Great  Car- 
buncle he  had  been  condemned  to  wander  among 
the  mountains  till  the  end  of  time,  still  with  the 
same  feverish  hopes  at  sunrise — the  same  despair 
at  eve.  Near  this  miserable  Seeker  sat  a little 
elderly  personage,  wearing  a high-crowned  hat, 
shaped  somewhat  like  a crucible.  He  was  from  be- 
yond the  sea,  a Doctor  Cacaphodel,  who  had  wilted 
and  dried  himself  into  a mummy,  by  continually 
stooping  over  charcoal  furnaces,  and  inhaling  un- 
wholesome fumes,  during  his  researches  in  chem- 
istry and  alchemy.  It  was  told  of  him,  whether 
truly  or  not,  that,  at  the  commencement  of  his 
studies,  he  had  drained  his  body  of  all  its  richest 
blood,  and  wasted  it,  with  other  inestimable  ingre- 
dients, in  an  unsuccessful  experiment — and  had 
never  been  a well  man  since.  Another  of  the  ad- 
venturers was  Master  Ichabod  Pigsnort,  a weighty 


5 

10 

15 

20 

25 


2 1 Alchemy.  The  immature  chemistry  of  the  middle  ages,  which  was  character- 
ized by  the  search  for  the  panacea,  or  cure-all,  and  the  philosopher’s  stone,  which 
was  to  change  base  metals  to  gold. 


152 


TWICE-TOLD  TALES 


merchant  and  selectman  of  Boston,  and  an  elder 
of  the  famous  Mr.  Norton’s  church.  His  enemies 
had  a ridiculous  story,  that  Master  Pigsnort  was 
accustomed  to  spend  a whole  hour,  after  prayer- 
5 time,  every  morning  and  evening,  in  wallowing 
naked  among  an  immense  quantity  of  pine-tree 
shillings,  which  were  the  earliest  silver  coinage  of 
Massachusetts.  The  fourth,  whom  we  shall  no- 
tice, had  no  name,  that  his  companions  knew  of, 
10  and  was  chiefly  distinguished  by  a sneer  that  al- 
ways contorted  his  thin  visage,  and  by  a prodig- 
ious pair  of  spectacles,  which  were  supposed  to 
deform  and  discolor  the  whole  face  of  nature,  to 
this  gentleman’s  perception.  The  fifth  adventurer 
15  likewise  lacked  a name,  which  was  the  greater 
pity,  as  he  appeared  to  be  a poet.  He  was  a 
bright-eyed  man,  but  wofully  pined  away,  which 
was  no  more  than  natural,  if,  as  some  people  af- 
firmed, his  ordinary  diet  was  fog,  morning  mist, 
20  and  a slice  of  the  densest  cloud  within  his  reach, 
sauced  with  moonshine,  whenever  he  could  get  it. 
Certain  it  is  that  the  poetry  which  flowed  from  him 
had  a smack  of  all  these  dainties.  The  sixth  of  the 
party  was  a young  man  of  haughty  mien,  and  sat 
25  somewhat  apart  from  the  rest,  wearing  his  plumed 
hat  loftily  among  his  elders,  while  the  fire  glittered 
on  the  rich  embroidery  of  his  dress,  and  gleamed 


2 Mr.  John  Norton  (1606-1663).  A minister  of  Boston,  the  successor  of  John 
Cotton,  the  famous  divine,  whose  life  he  wrote. 

7 Pine-tree  shillings.  On  the  one  side  of  the  coin  was  stamped  the  date,  1652, 
and  on  the  other  the  figure  of  a pine-tree.  Cf.  Hawthorne’s  “Grandfather’s 
Chair,”  Maynard’s  English  Classics,  No.  184. 


THE  GREAT  CARBUNCLE 


153 


intensely  on  the  jewelled  pommel  of  his  sword.  This 
was  the  Lord  De  Vere,  who,  when  at  home,  was  said 
to  spend  much  of  his  time  in  the  burial  vault  of  his 
dead  progenitors,  rummaging  their  mouldy  coffins 
in  search  of  all  the  earthly  pride  and  vain-glory5 
that  was  hidden  among  bones  and  dust ; so  that, 
besides  his  own  share,  he  had  the  collected  haugh- 
tiness of  his  whole  line  of  ancestry. 

Lastly,  there  was  a handsome  youth  in  rustic 
garb,  and  by  his  side  a blooming  little  person,  in  10 
whom  a delicate  shade  of  maiden  reserve  was  just 
melting  into  the  rich  glow  of  a young  wife’s  affec- 
tion. Her  name  was  Hannah,  and  her  husband’s 
Matthew;  two  homely  names,  yet  well  enough 
adapted  to  the  simple  pair,  who  seemed  strangely  15 
out  of  place  among  the  whimsical  fraternity  whose 
wits  had  been  set  agog  by  the  Great  Carbuncle. 

Beneath  the  shelter  of  one  hut,  in  the  bright  blaze 
of  the  same  fire,  sat  this  varied  group  of  adven- 
turers, all  so  intent  upon  a single  object,  that,  of  20 
whatever  else  they  began  to  speak,  their  closing 
words  were  sure  to  be  illuminated  with  the  Great 
Carbuncle.  Several  related  the  circumstances  that 
brought  them  thither.  One  had  listened  to  a trav- 
eller’s tale  of  this  marvellous  stone,  in  his  own  dis-  25 
tant  country,  and  had  immediately  been  seized  with 
such  a thirst  for  beholding  it,  as  could  only  be 
quenched  in  its  intensest  lustre.  Another,  so  long 
ago  as  when  the  famous  Captain  Smith  visited 


2 9 Captain  John  Smith  (1579-1632).  A famous  English  adventurer,  who,  in 
1614,  explored  the  New  England  coast  from  Penobscot  to  Cape  Cod. 


154  TWICE-TOLD  TALES 

these  coasts,  had  seen  it  blazing  far  at  sea,  and 
had  felt  no  rest  in  all  the  intervening  years,  till 
now  that  he  took  up  the  search.  A third,  being 
encamped  on  a hunting  expedition,  full  forty  miles 
5 south  of  the  White  Mountains,  awoke  at  midnight, 
and  beheld  the  Great  Carbuncle  gleaming  like  a 
meteor,  so  that  the  shadows  of  the  trees  fell  back- 
ward from  it.  They  spoke  of  the  innumerable  at- 
tempts which  had  been  made  to  reach  the  spot, 
10  and  of  the  singular  fatality  which  had  hitherto 
withheld  success  from  all  adventurers,  though  it 
might  seem  so  easy  to  follow  to  its  source  a light 
that  overpowered  the  moon,  and  almost  matched 
the  sun.  It  was  observable  that  each  smiled  scorn- 
15  fully  at  the  madness  of  every  other,  in  anticipating 
better  fortune  than  the  past,  yet  nourished  a 
scarcely  hidden  conviction  that  he  would  himself 
be  the  favored  one.  As  if  to  allay  their  too  san- 
guine hopes,  they  recurred  to  the  Indian  traditions, 
20  that  a spirit  kept  watch  about  the  gem,  and  be- 
wildered those  who  sought  it,  either  by  removing 
it  from  peak  to  peak  of  the  higher  hills,  or  by  call- 
ing up  a mist  from  the  enchanted  lake  over  which 
it  hung.  But  these  tales  were  deemed  unworthy  of 
25  credit ; all  professing  to  believe  that  the  search  had 
been  baffled  by  want  of  sagacity  or  perseverance 
in  the  adventurers,  or  such  other  causes  as  might 
naturally  obstruct  the  passage  to  any  given  point 
among  the  intricacies  of  forest,  valley,  and  morni- 
30  tain. 

In  a pause  of  the  conversation,  the  wearer  of  the 


TEE  GREAT  CARBUNCLE 


155 


prodigious  spectacles  looked  round  upon  the  party, 
making  each  individual,  in  turn,  the  object  of  the 
sneer  which  invariably  dwelt  upon  his  countenance. 

“ So,  fellow-pilgrims/’  said  he,  “ here  we  are,  seven 
wise  men  and  one  fair  damsel — wTho,  doubtless,  is 
as  wise  as  any  grey-beard  of  the  company ; here  we 
are,  I say,  all  bound  on  the  same  goodly  enter- 
prise. Methinks,  now,  it  were  not  amiss  that  each 
of  us  declare  what  he  proposes  to  do  with  the  Great 
Carbuncle,  provided  he  have  the  good  hap  to  clutch 
it.  What  says  our  friend  in  the  bear-skin  ? How 
mean  you,  good  sir,  to  enjoy  the  prize  which  you 
have  been  seeking,  the  Lord  knows  how  long, 
among  the  Crystal  Hills?” 

“ How  enjoy  it,”  exclaimed  the  aged  Seeker,  bit- 
terly, “ I hope  for  no  enjoyment  from  it — that  folly 
has  passed  long  ago  ! I keep  up  the  search  for  this 
accursed  stone,  because  the  vain  ambition  of  my 
youth  has  become  a fate  upon  me,  in  old  age.  The 
pursuit  alone  is  my  strength  — the  energy  of  my 
soul — the  warmth  of  my  blood,  and  the  pith  and 
marrow  of  my  bones!  Were  I to  turn  my  back 
upon  it,  I should  fall  down  dead  on  the  hither  side 
of  the  Notch,  which  is  the  gateway  of  this  moun- 
tain region.  Yet,  not  to  have  my  wasted  lifetime 
back  again,  would  I give  up  my  hopes  of  the  Great 
Carbuncle ! Having  found  it  I shall  bear  it  to  a 
certain  cavern  that  I wot  of,  and  there,  grasping  it 


24  The  Notch.  Crawford  Notch,  a deep,  narrow  yalley  in  the  White  Moun- 
tains, New  Hampshire. 

8 8 Wot  (archaic);  Know, 


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TWICE-TOLD  TALES 


in  my  arms,  lie  down  and  die,  and  keep  it  buried 
with  me  for  ever.” 

“ Oh,  wretch,  regardless  of  the  interests  of  sci- 
ence!” cried  Doctor  Cacaphodel,  with  philosophic 
5 indignation.  “ Thou  art  not  worthy  to  behold, 
even  from  afar  off,  the  lustre  of  this  most  precious 
gem  that  ever  was  concocted  in  the  laboratory  of 
Nature.  Mine  is  the  sole  purpose  for  which  a wise 
man  may  desire  the  possession  of  the  Great  Car- 
lo buncle.  Immediately  on  obtaining  it — for  I have 
a presentiment,  good  people,  that  the  prize  is  re- 
served to  crown  my  scientific  reputation — I shall 
return  to  Europe,  and  employ  my  remaining  years 
in  reducing  it  to  its  first  elements.  A portion  of 
15  the  stone  will  I grind  to  impalpable  powder ; other 
parts  shall  be  dissolved  in  acids,  or  whatever  sol- 
vents will  act  upon  so  admirable  a composition ; 
and  the  remainder  I design  to  melt  in  the  crucible, 
or  set  on  fire  with  the  blow-pipe.  By  these  various 
20  methods,  I shall  gain  an  accurate  analysis,  and 
finally  bestow  the  result  of  my  labors  upon  the 
world,  in  a folio  volume.” 

“ Excellent ! ” quoth  the  man  with  the  spectacles. 
“ Nor  need  you  hesitate,  learned  sir,  on  account  of 
25  the  necessary  destruction  of  the  gem ; since  the 
perusal  of  your  folio  may  teach  every  mother’s  son 
of  us  to  concoct  a Great  Carbuncle  of  his  own.” 

“But,  verily,”  said  Master  Ichabod  Pigsnort, 
“for  mine  own  part  I object  to  the  making  of 
30  these  counterfeits,  as  being  calculated  to  reduce 
the  marketable  value  of  the  true  gem.  I tell  ye 


THE  GREAT  CARBUNCLE 


157 


frankly,  sirs,  I have  an  interest  in  keeping  up  the 
price.  Here  have  I quitted  my  regular  traffic,  leav- 
ing my  warehouse  in  the  care  of  my  clerks,  and 
putting  my  credit  to  great  hazard,  and  further- 
more have  put  myself  in  peril  of  death  or  captivity 
by  the  accursed  heathen  savages — and  all  this  with- 
out daring  to  ask  the  prayers  of  the  congregation, 
because  the  quest  for  the  Great  Carbuncle  is  deemed 
little  better  than  a traffic  with  the  Evil  One.  Now 
think  ye  that  I would  have  done  this  grievous 
wrong  to  my  soul,  body,  reputation,  and  estate, 
without  a reasonable  chance  of  profit?  ” 

“Not  I,  pious  Master  Pigsnort,”  said  the  man 
with  spectacles.  “ I never  laid  such  a great  folly  to 
thy  charge.” 

“ Truly,  I hope  not,”  said  the  merchant.  “Now 
as  touching  this  Great  Carbuncle,  I am  free  to  own 
that  I have  never  had  a glimpse  of  it ; but  be  it 
only  the  hundredth  part  so  bright  as  people  tell,  it 
will  surely  outvalue  the  Great  Mogul’s  best  dia- 
mond, which  he  holds  at  an  incalculable  sum. 
Wherefore  I am  minded  to  put  the  Great  Carbuncle 
on  shipboard  and  voyage  with  it  to  England, 
France,  Spain,  Italy  or  into  Heathendom,  if  Prov- 
idence should  send  me  thither,  and,  in  a word,  dis- 
pose of  the  gem  to  the  best  bidder  among  the  poten- 
tates of  the  earth,  that  he  may  place  it  among  his 


so  The  Great  Mogul’s  best  diamond.  This  is  supposed  to  be  the  diamond 
now  called  the  Koh-i-noor,  which  in  1850  was  added  to  Queen  Victoria’s  crown 
jewels.  It  was  discovered  56  B.  C.,  and  in  the  fourteenth  century  was  owned  by 
the  Great  Mogul,  or  Sultan  of  Delhi. 


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TWICE-TOLD  TALES 


crown  jewels.  If  any  of  ye  have  a wiser  plan,  let 
him  expound  it.” 

“ That  have  I,  thou  sordid  man  ! ” exclaimed  the 
poet.  “Dost  thou  desire  nothing  brighter  than 
5 gold,  that  thou  wouldst  transmute  all  this  ethe- 
real lustre  into  such  dross,  as  thou  wallowest  in 
already?  For  myself,  hiding  the  jewel  under  my 
cloak,  I shall  hie  me  back  to  my  attic  chamber,  in 
one  of  the  darksome  alleys  of  London.  There, 
10  night  and  day,  will  I gaze  upon  it — my  soul  shall 
drink  its  radiance — it  shall  be  diffused  throughout 
my  intellectual  powers,  and  gleam  brightly  in  every 
line  of  poesy  that  I indite.  Thus,  long  ages  after 
I am  gone,  the  splendor  of  the  Great  Carbuncle  will 
15  blaze  around  my  name !” 

“Well  said,  Master  Poet ! ” cried  he  of  the  spec- 
tacles. “Hide  it  under  thy  cloak,  sayest  thou? 
Why,  it  will  gleam  through  the  holes,  and  make 
thee  look  like  a jack-o’lantern  !” 

20  “To  think,”  ejaculated  the  Lord  de  Yere,  rather 
to  himself  than  his  companions,  the  best  of  whom 
he  held  utterly  unworthy  of  his  intercourse — “to 
think  that  a fellow  in  a tattered  cloak  should  talk 
of  conveying  the  Great  Carbuncle  to  a garret  in 
25  Grub  street ! Have  not  I resolved  within  myself 
that  the  whole  earth  contains  no  fitter  ornament 
for  the  great  hall  of  my  ancestral  castle?  There 
shall  it  flame  for  ages,  making  a noonday  of  mid- 
night, glittering  on  the  suits  of  armor,  the  banners 


2 5 Grub  street.  Now  called  Milton  street,  London.  It  was  famous  for  liter 
ary  hacks  and  trashy  literature. 


THE  GREAT  CARBUNCLE 


159 


and  escutcheons  that  hang  around  the  wall,  and 
keeping  bright  the  memory  of  heroes.  Wherefore 
have  all  other  adventurers  sought  the  prize  in 
vain,  but  that  I might  win  it,  and  make  it  a symbol 
of  the  glories  of  our  lofty  line  ? And  never,  on  the  5 
diadem  of  the  White  Mountains,  did  the  (treat  Car- 
buncle hold  a place  half  so  honored  as  is  reserved 
for  it  in  the  hall  of  the  De  Yeres !” 

“ It  is  a noble  thought,”  said  the  Cynic  with  an 
obsequious  sneer.  “ Yet,  might  I presume  to  say  so,  10 
the  gem  would  make  a rare  sepulchral  lamp,  and 
would  display  the  glories  of  your  lordship’s  pro- 
genitors more  truly  in  the  ancestral  vault,  than  in 
the  castle-hall.” 

“Nay,  forsooth,”  observed  Matthew,  the  young  15 
rustic  who  sat  hand-in-hand  with  his  bride,  “the 
gentleman  has  bethought  himself  of  a profitable 
use  for  this  bright  stone.  Hannah  here  and  1 are 
seeking  it  for  a like  purpose.” 

“How,  fellow!”  exclaimed  his  lordship,  in  sur-20 
prise.  “ What  castle-hall  hast  thou  to  hang  it 
in?  ” 

“No  castle,”  replied  Matthew,  “but  as  neat  a 
cottage  as  any  within  sight  of  the  Crystal  Hills. 
Ye  must  know,  friends,  that  Hannah  and  I,  being  25 
wedded  the  last  week,  have  taken  up  the  search  of 
the  Great  Carbuncle  because  we  shall  need  its  light 
in  the  long  winter  evenings ; and  it  will  be  such  a 
pretty  thing  to  show  the  neighbors  when  they 
visit  us.  It  will  shine  through  the  house,  so  that  30 
we  may  pick  up  a pin  in  any  corner,  and  will  set 


160 


TWICE-TOLD  TALES 


all  the  windows  a-glowing,  as  if  there  were  a great 
fire  of  pine-knots  in  the  chimney.  And  then  how 
pleasant  when  we  awake  in  the  night  to  be  able  to 
see  one  another’s  faces ! ” 

5 There  was  a general  smile  among  the  adventur- 
ers, at  the  simplicity  of  the  young  couple’s  project, 
in  regard  to  this  wondrous  and  invaluable  stone, 
with  which  the  greatest  monarch  on  earth  might 
have  been  proud  to  adorn  his  palace.  Especially 
10  the  man  with  spectacles,  who  had  sneered  at  all 
the  company  in  turn,  now  twisted  his  visage  into 
such  an  expression  of  denatured  mirth,  that  Mat- 
thew asked  him,  rather  peevishly,  what  he  himself 
meant  to  do  with  the  Great  Carbuncle. 

15  “The  Great  Carbuncle!”  answered  the  Cynic, 
with  ineffable  scorn.  “ Why,  you  blockhead,  there 
is  no  such  thing,  in  rerum  naturd.  I have  come 
three  thousand  miles,  and  am  resolved  to  set  my 
foot  on  every  peak  of  these  mountains,  and  poke 
20  my  head  into  every  chasm,  for  the  sole  purpose  of 
demonstrating  to  the  satisfaction  of  any  man,  one 
whit  less  an  ass  than  thyself,  that  the  Great  Car- 
buncle is  all  a humbug!  ” 

Yain  and  foolish  were  the  motives  that  had 
25  brought  most  of  the  adventurers  to  the  Crystal 
Hills,  but  none  so  vain,  so  foolish,  and  so  impious 
too,  as  that  of  the  scoffer  with  the  prodigious  spec- 
tacles. He  was  one  of  those  wretched  and  evil 
men,  whose  yearnings  are  downward  to  the  dark- 
80  ness,  instead  of  Heavenward,  and  who,  could  they 


1 7 In  rerum  natura  (Lat.)  : In  the  nature  of  things. 


THE  GREAT  CARBUNCLE 


161 


but  extinguish  the  lights  which  God  hath  kindled 
for  us,  would  count  the  midnight  gloom  their 
chiefest  glory.  As  the  Cynic  spoke,  several  of  the 
party  were  startled  by  a gleam  of  red  splendor, 
that  showed  the  huge  shapes  of  the  surrounding 
mountains,  and  the  rock  bestrewn  bed  of  the  tur- 
bulent river,  with  an  illumination  unlike  that  of 
their  fire,  on  the  trunks  and  black  boughs  of  the 
forest  trees.  They  listened  for  the  roll  of  thunder, 
but  heard  nothing,  and  were  glad  that  the  tempest 
came  not  near  them.  The  stars,  those  dial  points 
of  heaven,  now  warned  the  adventurers  to  close 
their  eyes  on  the  blazing  logs,  and  open  them,  in 
dreams,  to  the  glow  of  the  Great  Carbuncle. 

The  young  married  couple  had  taken  their  lodg- 
ings in  the  farthest  corner  of  the  wigwam,  and  were 
separated  from  the  rest  of  the  party  by  a curtain 
of  curiously  woven  twigs,  such  as  might  have  hung, 
in  deep  festoons,  around  the  bridal  bower  of  Eve. 
The  modest  little  wife  had  wrought  this  piece  of 
tapestry,  while  the  other  guests  were  talking.  She 
and  her  husband  fell  asleep,  with  hands  tenderly 
clasped,  and  awoke,  from  visions  of  unearthly 
radiance,  to  meet  the  more  blessed  light  of  one 
another’s  eyes.  They  awoke  at  the  same  instant, 
and  with  one  happy  smile  beaming  over  their  two 
faces,  which  grew  brighter  with  their  consciousness 
of  the  reality  of  life  and  love.  But  no  sooner  did 
she  recollect  where  they  were,  than  the  bride  peeped 
through  the  interstices  of  the  leafy  curtain,  and 
saw  that  the  outer  room  of  the  hut  was  deserted. 


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TWICE-TOLD  TALES 


“ Up,  dear  Matthew  1”  cried  she  in  haste.  “ The 
strange  folk  are  all  gone  1 Up,  this  very  minute, 
or  we  shall  lose  the  Great  Carbuncle  I” 

In  truth,  so  little  did  these  poor  young  people 
5 deserve  the  mighty  prize  which  had  lured  them 
thither,  that  they  had  slept  peacefully  all  night, 
and  till  the  summits  of  the  hills  were  glittering  with 
sunshine ; while  the  other  adventurers  had  tossed 
their  limbs  in  feverish  wakefulness,  or  dreamed  of 
10  climbing  precipices,  and  set  off  to  realize  their 
dreams  with  the  earliest  peep  of  dawn.  But  Mat- 
thew and  Hannah,  after  their  calm  rest,  were  as 
light  as  two  young  deer,  and  merely  stopped  to  say 
their  prayers,  and  wash  themselves  in  a cool  pool 
15  of  the  Amonoosuck,  and  then  to  taste  a morsel  of 
food,  ere  they  turned  their  faces  to  the  mountain 
side.  It  was  a sweet  emblem  of  conjugal  affection, 
as  they  toiled  up  the  difficult  ascent,  gathering 
strength  from  the  mutual  aid  which  they  afforded. 
20  After  several  little  accidents,  such  as  a torn  robe, 
a lost  shoe,  and  the  entanglement  of  Hannah’s  hair 
in  a bough,  they  reached  the  upper  verge  of  the 
forest,  and  were  now  to  pursue  a more  adventurous 
course.  The  innumerable  trunks  and  heavy  fol- 
25  iage  of  the  trees  had  hitherto  shut  in  their  thoughts, 
which  now  shrank  affrighted  from  the  region  of 
wind,  and  cloud,  and  naked  rocks,  and  desolate  sun- 
shine, that  rose  immeasurably  above  them.  They 
gazed  back  at  the  obscure  wilderness  which  they 
30  had  traversed,  and  longed  to  be  buried  again  in  its 


TEE  GREAT  CARBUNCLE 


163 


depths,  rather  than  trust  themselves  to  so  vast 
and  visible  a solitude. 

“ Shall  we  go  on  ?”  said  Matthew,  throwing  his 
arm  round  Hannah’s  waist,  both  to  protect  her, 
and  to  comfort  his  heart  by  drawing  her  close  5 
to  it. 

But  the  little  bride,  simple  as  she  was,  had  a 
woman’s  love  of  jewels,  and  could  not  forego  the 
hope  of  possessing  the  very  brightest  in  the  world, 
in  spite  of  the  perils  with  which  it  must  be  won.  10 

“ Let  us  climb  a little  higher,”  whispered  she,  yet 
tremulously,  as  she  turned  her  face  upward  to  the 
lonely  sky. 

“ Come,  then,”  said  Matthew,  mustering  his 
manly  courage,  and  drawing  her  along  with  him ; 15 
for  she  became  timid  again,  the  moment  that  he 
grew  bold. 

And  upward,  accordingly,  went  the  pilgrims  of 
the  Great  Carbuncle,  now  treading  upon  the  tops 
and  thickly  interwoven  branches  of  dwarf  pines,  20 
which,  by  the  growth  of  centuries,  though  mossy 
with  age,  had  barely  reached  three  feet  in  alti- 
tude. Next,  they  came  to  masses  and  fragments 
of  naked  rock,  heaped  confusedly  together,  like  a 
cairn  reared  by  giants,  in  memory  of  a giant  chief.  25 
In  this  bleak  realm  of  upper  air,  nothing  breathed, 
nothing  grew ; there  was  no  life  but  what  was  con- 
centrated in  their  two  hearts ; they  had  climbed 
so  high,  that  Nature  herself  seemed  no  longer  to 
keep  them  company.  She  lingered  beneath  them,  30 
within  the  verge  of  the  forest  trees,  and  sent  a fare- 


164 


TWICE-TOLD  TALES 


well  glance  after  her  children,  as  they  strayed 
where  her  own  green  foot-prints  had  never  been. 
But  soon  they  were  to  be  hidden  from  her  eye. 
Densely  and  dark,  the  mists  began  to  gather  below, 
5 casting  black  spots  of  shadow  on  the  vast  land- 
scape, and  sailing  heavily  to  one  centre,  as  if  the 
loftiest  mountain-peak  had  summoned  a council 
of  its  kindred  clouds.  Finally,  the  vapors  welded 
themselves,  as  it  were,  into  a mass,  presenting  the 
10  appearance  of  a pavement  over  which  the.  wander- 
ers might  have  trodden,  but  where  they  would 
vainly  have  sought  an  avenue  to  the  blessed  earth 
which  they  had  lost.  And  the  lovers  yearned  to 
behold  the  green  earth  again,  more  intensely,  alas ! 
15  than,  beneath  a clouded  sky,  they  had  ever  desired 
a glimpse  of  Heaven.  They  even  felt  it  a relief  to 
their  desolation,  when  the  mists,  creeping  gradually 
up  the  mountain,  concealed  its  lonely  peak,  and 
thus  annihilated,  at  least  for  them,  the  whole  re- 
20  gion  of  visible  space.  But  they  drew  closer  togeth- 
er, with  a fond  and  melancholy  gaze,  dreading  lest 
the  universal  cloud  should  snatch  them  from  each 
other’s  sight. 

Still,  perhaps,  they  would  have  been  resolute 
25  to  climb  as  far  and  as  high,  between  earth  and 
heaven,  as  they  could  find  foothold,  if  Hannah’s 
strength  had  not  begun  to  fail,  and  with  that  her 
courage  also.  Her  breath  grew  short.  She  refused 
to  burden  her  husband  with  her  weight,  but  often 
30  tottered  against  his  side,  and  recovered  herself 


TEE  GREAT  CARBUNCLE 


165 


each  time  by  a feebler  effort.  At  last  she  sank  down 
on  one  of  the  rocky  steps  of  the  acclivity. 

“We  are  lost,  dear  Matthew,”  said  she,  mourn- 
fully. “We  shall  never  find  our  way  to  the  earth 
again.  And,  oh,  how  happy  we  might  have  been 
in  our  cottage!” 

“Dear  heart!  we  will  yet  be  happy  there,”  an- 
swered Matthew.  “'Look!  In  this  direction  the 
sunshine  penetrates  the  dismal  mist.  By  its  aid  I 
can  direct  our  course  to  the  passage  of  the  Notch. 
Let  us  go  back,  love,  and  dream  no  more  of  the 
Great  Carbuncle !” 

“ The  sun  cannot  be  yonder,”  said  Hannah,  with 
despondence.  “By  this  time  it  must  be  noon.  If 
there  could  ever  be  any  sunshine  here,  it  would 
come  from  above  our  heads.” 

“ But  look ! ” repeated  Matthew,  in  a somewhat 
altered  tone.  “It  is  brightening  every  moment. 
If  not  sunshine,  what  can  it  be?” 

Nor  could  the  young  bride  any  longer  deny  that 
a radiance  was  breaking  through  the  mist,  and 
changing  its  dim  hue  to  a dusky  red,  which  con- 
tinually grew  more  vivid  as  if  brilliant  particles 
were  interfused  with  the  gloom.  Now,  also,  the 
cloud  began  to  roll  away  from  the  mountain, 
while,  as  it  heavily  withdrew,  one  object  after 
another  started  out  of  its  impenetrable  obscurity 
into  sight,  with  precisely  the  effect  of  a new  crea- 
tion before  the  indistinctness  of  the  old  chaos  had 
been  completely  swallowed  up.  As  the  process  went 
on,  they  saw  the  gleaming  of  water  close  at  their 


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TWICE-TOLD  TALES 


feet,  and  found  themselves  on  the  very  border  of  a 
mountain  lake— deep,  bright,  clear,  and  calmly 
beautiful,  spreading  from  brim  to  brim  of  a basin 
that  had  been  scooped  out  of  the  solid  rock.  A 
5 ray  of  glory  flashed  across  its  surface.  The  pil- 
grims looked  whence  it  should  proceed,  but  closed 
their  eyes  with  a thrill  of  awful  admiration,  to  ex- 
clude the  fervid  splendor  that  glowed  from  the 
brow  of  a cliff  impending  over  the  enchanted  lake. 
10  For  the  simple  pair  had  reached  that  lake  of  mys- 
tery, and  found  the  long-sought  shrine  of  the 
Great  Carbuncle ! 

They  threw  their  arms  around  each  other,  and 
trembled  at  their  own  success ; for  as  the  legends 
15  of  this  wondrous  gem  rushed  thick  upon  their 
memory,  they  felt  themselves  marked  out  by  fate ; 
and  the  consciousness  was  fearful.  Often,  from 
childhood  upward,  they  had  seen  it  shining  like  a dis- 
tant star.  And  now  that  star  was  throwing  its  in- 
20  tensest  lustre  on  their  hearts.  They  seemed  changed 
to  one  another’s  eyes  in  the  red  brilliancy  that 
flamed  upon  their  cheeks,  while  it  lent  the  same  fire 
to  the  lake,  the  rocks,  and  sky,  and  to  the  mists 
which  had  rolled  back  before  its  power.  But,  with 
25  their  next  glance,  they  beheld  an  object  that  drew 
their  attention  even  from  the  mighty  stone.  At 
the  base  of  the  cliff,  directly  beneath  the  Great 
Carbuncle,  appeared  the  figure  of  a man,  with  his 
arms  extended  in  the  act  of  climbing,  and  his  face 
30  turned  upward  as  if  to  drink  the  full  gush  of  splen- 


THE  GREAT  CARBUNCLE 


167 


dor.  But  he  stirred  not,  no  more  than  if  changed 
to  marble 

“It  is  the  Seeker,”  whispered  Hannah,  convul- 
sively grasping  her  husband’s  arm.  “ Matthew,  he 
is  dead.” 

“ The  joy  of  success  has  killed  him,”  replied  Mat- 
thew, trembling  violently ; “or,  perhaps  the  very 
light  of  the  Great  Carbuncle  was  death !” 

“The  Great  Carbuncle!”  cried  a peevish  voice 
behind  them.  “ The  Great  Humbug ! If  you  have 
found  it,  prithee  point  it  out  to  me.” 

They  turned  their  heads,  and  there  was  the 
Cynic,  with  his  prodigious  spectacles  set  carefully 
on  his  nose,  staring  now  at  the  lake,  now  at  the 
rocks,  now  at  the  distant  masses  of  vapor,  now 
right  at  the  Great  Carbuncle  itself,  yet  seemingly 
as  unconscious  of  its  light,  as  if  all  the  scattered 
clouds  were  condensed  about  his  person.  Though 
its  radiance  actually  threw  the  shadow  of  the  un- 
believer at  his  own  feet,  as  he  turned  his  back  up- 
on the  glorious  jewel,  he  would  not  be  convinced 
that  there  was  the  least  glimmer  there. 

“Where  is  your  Great  Humbug?”  he  repeated. 
“I  challenge  you  to  make  me  see  it !” 

“ There !”  said  Matthew,  incensed  at  such  perverse 
blindness,  and  turning  the  Cynic  round  towards 
the  illuminated  cliff.  “Take  off  those  abominable 
spectacles,  and  you  cannot  help  seeing  it!” 

Now  these  colored  spectacles  probably  darkened 
the  Cynic’s  sight,  in  at  least  as  great  a degree  as 


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li  Prithee:  I pray  thee ; a corruption  of  the  abbreviation,  Pray  thee. 


168 


TWICE-TOLD  TALES 


the  smoked  glasses  through  which  people  gaze  at 
an  eclipse.  With  resolute  bravado,  however,  he 
snatched  them  from  his  nose,  and  fixed  a bold 
stare  full  upon  the  ruddy  blaze  of  the  Great  Car- 
5 buncle.  But  scarcely  had  he  encountered  it,  when, 
with  a deep,  shuddering  groan,  he  dropped  his 
head,  and  pressed  both  hands  across  his  miserable 
eyes.  Thenceforth  there  was,  in  very  truth,  no  light 
of  the  Great  Carbuncle,  nor  any  other  light  on 
10  earth,  nor  light  of  Heaven  itself,  for  the  poor  Cynic. 
So  long  accustomed  to  view  all  objects  through  a 
medium  that  deprived  them  of  every  glimpse  of 
brightness,  a single  flash  of  so  glorious  a phenome- 
non, striking  upon  his  naked  vision,  had  blinded 
15  him  for  ever. 

“Matthew,”  said  Hannah,  clinging  to  him,  “let 
us  go  hence !” 

Matthew  saw  that  she  was  faint,  and  kneeling 
down,  supported  her  in  his  arms,  while  he  threw 
20  some  of  the  thnllingly  cold  water  of  the  enchanted 
lake  upon  her  face  and  bosom.  It  revived  her,  but 
could  not  renovate  her  courage. 

“Yes,  dearest!”  cried  Matthew,  pressing  her 
tremulous  form  to  his  breast, — “ we  will  go  hence, 
25  and  return  to  our  humble  cottage.  The  blessed  sun- 
shine and  the  quiet  moonlight  shall  come  through 
our  window.  We  will  kindle  the  cheerful  glow  of 
our  hearth  at  eventide,  and  be  happy  in  its  light. 
But  never  again  will  we  desire  more  light  than  all 
80  the  world  may  share  with  us.” 

“No,”  said  his  bride;  “for  how  could  we  live 


THE  GREAT  CARBUNCLE 


169 


by  day,  or  sleep  by  night  in  this  awful  blaze  of  the 
Great  Carbuncle?  ” 

Out  of  the  hollow  of  their  hands  they  drank  each 
a draught  from  the  lake,  which  presented  them  its 
waters  uncontaminated  by  an  earthly  lip.  Then, 
lending  their  guidance  to  the  blinded  Cynic,  who 
uttered  not  a word,  and  even  stifled  his  groans  in 
his  own  most  wretched  heart,  they  began  to  de- 
scend the  mountain.  Yet,  as  they  left  the  shore, 
till  then  untrodden,  of  the  spirit’s  lake,  they  threw 
a farewell  glance  towards  the  cliff,  and  beheld  the 
vapors  gathering  in  dense  volumes,  through  which 
the  gem  burned  duskily. 

As  touching  the  other  pilgrims  of  the  Great  Car- 
buncle, the  legend  goes  on  to  tell,  that  the  wor- 
shipful Master  Ichabod  Pigsnort  soon  gave  up  the 
quest,  as  a desperate  speculation,  and  wisely  re- 
solved to  betake  himself  again  to  his  warehouse, 
near  the  town-dock,  in  Boston.  But  as  he  passed 
through  the  Notch  of  the  mountains,  a war-party 
of  Indians  captured  our  unlucky  merchant,  and 
carried  him  to  Montreal,  there  holding  him  in 
bondage,  till,  by  the  payment  of  a heavy  ransom, 
he  had  wofully  subtracted  from  his  hoard  of  pine- 
tree  shillings.  By  his  long  absence,  moreover,  his 
affairs  had  become  so  disordered,  that  for  the  rest 
of  his  life,  instead  of  wallowing  in  silver,  he  had  sel- 
dom a sixpence-worth  of  copper.  Doctor  Cacaplm 
del,  the  alchemist,  returned  to  his  laboratory  with 
a prodigious  fragment  of  granite,  which  he  ground 
to  powder,  dissolved  in  acids,  melted  in  the  cruci- 


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TWICE-TOLD  TALES 


ble,  and  burned  with  the  blowpipe,  and  published 
the  result  of  his  experiments  in  one  of  the  heaviest 
folios  of  the  day.  And,  for  all  these  purposes,  the 
gem  itself  could  not  have  answered  better  than  the 
5 granite.  The  poet,  by  a somewhat  similar  mistake, 
made  prize  of  a great  piece  of  ice,  which  he  found 
in  a sunless  chasm  of  the  mountains,  and  swore 
that  it  corresponded,  in  all  points,  with  his  idea 
of  the  Great  Carbuncle.  The  critics  say,  that  if  his 
10  poetry  lacked  the  splendor  of  the  gem,  it  retained 
all  the  coldness  of  the  ice.  The  Lord  de  Yere  went 
back  to  his  ancestral  hall,  where  he  contented  him- 
self with  a wax-lighted  chandelier,  and  filled,  in  due 
course  of  time,  another  coffin  in  the  ancestral  vault. 
15  As  the  funeral  torches  gleamed  within  that  dark 
receptacle,  there  was  no  need  of  the  Great  Carbun- 
cle to  show  the  vanity  of  earthly  pomp. 

The  Cynic,  having  cast  aside  his  spectacles,  wan- 
dered about  the  world,  a miserable  object,  and  was 
20  punished  with  an  agonizing  desire  of  light,  for  the 
wilful  blindness  of  his  former  life.  The  whole  night 
long  he  would  lift  his  splendor-blasted  orbs  to  the 
moon  and  stars ; he  turned  his  face  eastward,  at 
sunrise,  as  duly  as  a Persian  idolater ; he  made  a 
25  pilgrimage  to  Eome,  to  witness  the  magnificent 
illumination  of  Saint  Peter’s  church ; and  finally 
perished  in  the  Great  Fire  of  London,  into  the 

2 4 Persian  idolater.  The  ancient  Persians  were  sun -worshipers. 

2 6 st.  Peter’s  church.  A magnificent  church  at  Home,  the  interior  of  which 
is  lavishly  adorned  with  stucco  and  gilding. 

2 7 The  Great  Fire  of  London.  This  took  place  in  1666,  the  year  after  the 
Great  Plague,  to  which  it  put  an  end.  Though  only  six  lives  were  lost  in  the  fire, 
it  rendered  more  than  two  hundred  thousand  persons  homeless. 


THE  GREAT  CARBUNCLE 


171 


midst  of  which  he  had  thrust  himself,  with  the  des- 
perate idea  of  catching  one  feeble  ray  from  the 
blaze  that  was  kindling  earth  and  heaven. 

Matthew  and  his  bride  spent  many  peaceful  years, 
and  were  fond  of  telling  the  legend  of  the  Great 
Carbuncle.  The  tale,  however,  towards  the  close 
of  their  lengthened  lives,  did  not  meet  with  the 
full  credence  that  had  been  accorded  to  it  by  those 
who  remembered  the  ancient  lustre  of  the  gem. 
For  it  is  affirmed,  that  from  the  hour  when  two 
mortals  had  shown  themselves  so  simply  wise  as 
to  reject  a jewel  which  would  have  dimmed  all 
earthly  things,  its  splendor  waned.  When  other  pil- 
grims reached  the  cliff  they  found  only  an  opaque 
stone,  with  particles  of  mica  glittering  on  its  sur- 
face. There  is  also  a tradition, that  as  the  youth- 
ful pair  departed,  the  gem  was  loosened  from  the 
forehead  of  the  cliff,  and  fell  into  the  enchanted 
lake,  and  that  at  noontide  the  Seeker’s  form  may 
still  be  seen  to  bend  over  its  quenchless  gleam. 

Some  few  believe  that  this  inestimable  stone  is 
blazing  as  of  old,  and  say  that  they  have  caught 
its  radiance,  like  a flash  of  summer  lightning,  far 
down  the  valley  of  the  Saco.  And  be  it  owned, 
that  many  a mile  from  the  Crystal  Hills,  I saw  a 
wondrous  light  around  their  summits,  and  was 
lured,  by  the  faith  of  poesy,  to  be  the  latest  pil- 
grim of  the  Great  Carbuncle. 


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MR.  HIGGINBOTHAM’S  CATAS- 
TROPHE 


A young  fellow,  a tobacco  peddler  by  trade, 
was  on  his  way  from  Morristown,  where  he  had 
dealt  largely  with  the  Deacon  of  the  Shaker 
settlement,  to  the  village  of  Parker’s  Falls,  on 
5 Salmon  River.  He  had  a neat  little  cart,  painted 
green,  with  a box  of  cigars  depicted  on  each  side 
panel,  and  an  Indian  chief  holding  a pipe  and  a 
golden  tobacco-stalk  on  the  rear.  The  peddler 
drove  a smart  little  mare  and  was  a young  man 
10  of  excellent  character,  keen  at  a bargain,  but 
none  the  worse  liked  by  the  Yankees ; who,  as 
I have  heard  them  say,  would  rather  be  shaved 
with  a sharp  razor  than  a dull  one.  Especially 
was  he  beloved  by  the  pretty  girls  along  the 
15  Connecticut,  whose  favor  he  used  to  court  by 
presents  of  the  best  smoking  tobacco  in  his 
stock ; knowing  well  that  the  country  lasses  of 
New  England  are  generally  great  performers  on 


3 Shaker  settlement.  The  Shakers  are  members  of  a sect  originating 
in  England  in  1747,  and  emigrating  to  the  United  States  in  1774,  under 
the  leadership  of  Mother  Ann  Lee.  In  doctrine  and  practice  the 
Shakers  resemble,  to  some  extent,  the  Quakers. 

173 


MR.  HIGGINBOTHAM'S  CATASTROPHE  1V3 


pipes.  Moreover,  as  will  be  seen  in  the  course  of 
my  story,  the  peddler  was  inquisitive  and  some- 
thing of  a tattler,  always  itching  to  hear  the 
news,  and  anxious  to  tell  it  again. 

After  an  early  breakfast  at  Morristown  the 
tobacco  peddler,  whose  name  was  Dominicus 
Pike,  had  traveled  seven  miles  through  a solitary 
piece  of  woods  without  speaking  a word  to  any- 
body but  himself  and  his  little  gray  mare.  It 
being  nearly  seven  o’clock,  he  was  as  eager  to 
hold  a morning  gossip  as  a city  shopkeeper  to 
read  the  morning  paper.  An  opportunity  seemed 
at  hand,  when  after  lighting  a cigar  with  a sun- 
glass, he  looked  up  and  perceived  a man  coming 
over  the  brow  of  the  hill,  at  the  foot  of  which  the 
peddler  had  stopped  his  green  cart.  Dominicus 
watched  him  as  he  descended,  and  noticed  that 
he  carried  a bundle  over  his  shoulder  on  the  end 
of  a stick,  and  traveled  with  a weary  yet  deter- 
mined pace.  He  did  not  look  as  if  he  had  started 
in  the  freshness  of  the  morning,  but  had  footed 
it  all  night,  and  meant  to  do  the  same  all  day. 

“ Grood-morning,  mister,”  said  Dominicus, 
when  within  speaking  distance.  “You  go  a 
pretty  good  jog.  What’s  the  latest  news  at 
Parker’s  Falls?” 


1 Pipes.  The  pun  is  on  pipe,  a tobacco-pipe,  and  pipe,  a wind 
instrument  of  music. 

13  Sun-glass.  A convex  lens  of  glass  for  producing  heat  by  converg- 
ing the  sun’s  rays  into  a focus. 


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1*7 4 MR.  HIGGINBOTHAM'S  CATASTROPHE 


The  man  pulled  the  broad  brim  of  a gray  hat 
over  his  eyes,  and  answered,  rather  sullenly, 
that  he  did  not  come  from  Parker’s  Falls,  which, 
as  being  the  limit  of  his  own  day’s  journey,  the 
5 peddler  had  naturally  mentioned  in  his  inquiry. 

“Well,  then,”  rejoined  Dominicus  Pike, 
“let’s  have  the  latest  news  where  you  did  come 
from.  Pm  not  particular  about  Parker’s  Falls. 
Any  place  will  answer.” 

10  Being  thus  importuned,  the  traveler — who  was 
as  ill-looking  a fellow  as  one  would  desire  to 
meet  in  a solitary  piece  of  woods — appeared  to 
hesitate  a little,  as  if  he  was  either  searching  his 
memory  for  news,  or  weighing  the  expediency  of 
15  telling  it.  At  last,  mounting  on  the  step  of  the 
cart,  he  whispered  in  the  ear  of  Dominicus, 
though  he  might  have  shouted  aloud,  and  no 
other  mortal  would  have  heard  him. 

“I  do  remember  one  little  trifle  of  news,”  said 
20 he.  “Old  Mr.  Higginbotham,  of  Kimballton, 
was  murdered  in  his  orchard,  at  eight  o’clock 
last  night,  by  an  Irishman  and  a nigger.  They 
strung  him  up  to  the  branch  of  a St.  Michael’s 
pear-tree,  where  nobody  would  find  him  till  the 
25  morning.” 

As  soon  as  this  horrible  intelligence  was 
communicated  the  stranger  betook  himself  to 
his  journey  again,  with  more  speed  than  ever, 
not  even  turning  his  head  when  Dominicus 
30 invited  him  to  smoke  a Spanish  cigar  and  relate 


MR.  HIGGINBOTHAM’S  CATASTROPHE  175 


all  tlie  particulars.  The  peddler  whistled  to  his 
mare  and  wrent  up  the  hill,  pondering  on  the 
doleful  fate  of  Mr.  Higginbotham,  whom  he  had 
known  in  the  way  of  trade,  having  sold  him 
many  a bunch  of  long-nines  and  a great  deal  of 
pig-tail,  lady’s  twist,  and  tig  tobacco.  He  was 
rather  astonished  at  the  rapidity  with  which  the 
news  had  spread.  Kimballton  was  nearly  sixty 
miles  distant  in  a straight  line  ; the  murder  had 
been  perpetrated  only  at  eight  o’clock  the 
preceding  night ; yet  Dominions  had  heard  of  it 
at  seven  in  the  morning,  when,  in  all  probability, 
poor  Mr.  Higginbotham’s  own  family  had  but 
just  discovered  his  corpse  hanging  on  the  St. 
Michael’s  pear-tree.  The  stranger  on  foot  must 
have  worn  seven-league  boots  to  travel  at  such  a 
rate. 

“Ill  news  flies  fast,  they  say,”  thought 
Dominicus  Pike;  “but  this  beats  railroads. 
The  fellow  ought  to  be  hired  to  go  express  with 
the  president’s  message.” 

The  difficulty  was  solved  by  supposing  that 
the  narrator  had  made  a mistake  of  one  day  in 
the  date  of  the  occurrence  ; so  that  our  friend 
did  not  hesitate  to  introduce  the  story  at  every 
tavern  and  country  store  along  the  road,  expend- 


5 Long-nines.  Cheap  cigars. 

6 Pig-tail.  Twisted  chewing-tobacco. 

6 Lady’s  twist.  A kind  of  chewing-tobacco. 
6 Fig  tobacco.  Tobacco  in  small  pieces. 


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176  MB.  HIGGINBOTHAM’S  CATASTROPHE 

ing  a whole  bunch  of  Spanish  wrappers  among  at 
least  twenty  horrified  audiences.  He  found  him- 
self invariably  the  first  bearer  of  the  intelligence, 
and  was  so  pestered  with  questions  that  he  could 
5 not  avoid  filling  up  the  outline  till  it  became 
quite  a respectable  narrative.  He  met  with  one 
piece  of  corroborative  evidence.  Mr.  Higgin- 
botham was  a trader ; and  a former  clerk  of  his, 
to  whom  Dominicus  related  the  facts,  testified 
10  that  the  old  gentleman  was  accustomed  to  return 
home  through  the  orchard  about  nightfall,  with 
the  money  and  valuable  papers  of  the  store  in 
his  pocket.  The  clerk  manifested  but  little  grief 
at  Mr.  Higginbotham’s  catastrophe,  hinting, 
15  what  the  peddler  had  discovered  in  his  own  deal- 
ings with  him,  that  he  was  a crusty  old  fellow, 
as  close  as  a vise.  His  property  would  descend 
to  a pretty  niece  who  was  now  keeping  school  in 
Kimballton. 

20  What  with  telling  the  news  for  the  public 
good,  and  driving  bargains  for  his  own,  Domini- 
cus was  so  much  delayed  on  the  road,  that  he 
chose  to  put  up  at  a tavern  about  five  miles 
short  of  Parker’s  Falls.  After  supper,  lighting 
25  one  of  his  prime  cigars,  he  seated  himself  in  the 
barroom,  and  went  through  the  story  of  the 
murder,  which  had  grown  so  fast  that  it  took 
him  half  an  hour  to  tell.  There  were  as  many  as 
twenty  people  in  the  room,  nineteen  of  whom 


1 Spanish  wrappers.  Imported  cigars. 


MR.  HIGGINBOTHAM'S  CATASTROPHE  111 


received  it  all  for  gospel.  But  the  twentieth  was 
an  elderly  farmer  who  had  arrived  on  horseback 
a short  time  before,  and  was  now  seated  in  a 
corner,  smoking  his  pipe.  When  the  story  was 
concluded,  he  rose  up  very  deliberately,  brought 
his  chair  right  in  front  of  Dominicus,  and  stared 
him  full  in  the  face,  puffing  out  the  vilest  tobacco 
smoke  the  peddler  had  ever  smelled. 

“Will  you  make  affidavit,”  demanded  he,  in 
the  tone  of  a country  justice  taking  an  examina- 
tion, “that  old  Squire  Higginbotham,  of  Kim- 
ballton,  was  murdered  in  his  orchard  the  night 
before  last,  and  found  hanging  on  his  great  pear- 
tree  yesterday  morning?” 

“I  tell  the  story  as  I heard  it,  mister,” 
answered  Dominicus,  dropping  his  half-burnt 
cigar;  “I  don’t  say  that  I saw  the  thing  done. 
So  I can’t  take  my  oath  that  he  was  murdered 
exactly  in  that  way.” 

“But  I can  take  mine,”  said  the  farmer, 
“that  if  Squire  Higginbotham  was  murdered 
night  before  last,  I drank  a glass  of  bitters  with 
his  ghost  this  morning.  Being  a neighbor  of 
mine,  he  called  me  into  his  store  as  I was  riding 
by,  and  treated  me,  and  then  asked  me  to  do  a 
little  business  for  him  on  the  road.  He  didn’t 
seem  to  know  any  more  about  his  own  murder 
than  I did.” 

“Why,  then  it  can’t  be  a fact!”  exclaimed 
Dominicus  Pike. 


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178  MR.  HIGGINBOTHAM’S  CATASTROPHE 

“I  guess  he’d  have  mentioned,  if  it  was,” 
said  the  old  farmer ; and  he  removed  his  chair 
back  to  the  corner,  leaving  Dominicus  quite 
down  in  the  mouth. 

5 Here  was  a sad  resurrection  of  old  Mr.  Hig- 
ginbotham ! The  peddler  had  no  heart  to  mingle 
in  the  conversation  any  more,  but  comforted 
himself  with  a glass  of  gin  and  water  and  went 
to  bed,  where,  all  night  long,  he  dreamt  of 
to  hanging  on  the  St.  Michael’s  pear-tree.  To 
avoid  the  old  farmer  (whom  he  so  detested,  that 
his  suspension  would  have  pleased  him  better 
than  Mr.  Higginbotham’s),  Dominicus  rose  in  the 
gray  of  the  morning,  put  the  little  mare  into  the 
15  green  cart,  and  trotted  swiftly  away  towards 
Parker’s  Falls.  The  fresh  breeze,  the  dewy 
road,  and  the  pleasant  summer  dawn  revived 
his  spirits,  and  might  have  encouraged  him  to 
repeat  the  old  story,  had  there  been  anybody 
20  awake  to  hear  it.  But  he  met  neither  ox- 
team,  light  wagon,  chaise,  horseman,  nor  foot- 
traveler,  till,  just  as  he  crossed  Salmon  River, 
a man  came  trudging  down  to  the  bridge 
with  a bundle  over  his  shoulder  on  the  end  of 
25  a stick. 

“Good-morning,  mister,”  said  the  peddler, 
reining  in  his  mare.  “If  you  come  from  Kim- 
ballton  or  that  neighborhood,  maybe  you  can 
tell  me  the  real  fact  about  this  affair  of  old  Mr. 
30  Higginbotham.  Was  the  old  fellow  actually 


MR.  HIGGINBOTHAM’S  CATASTROPHE  1 79 

murdered  two  or  three  nights  ago,  by  an  Irish- 
man and  a nigger  ? ” 

Dominicus  had  spoken  in  too  great  a hurry  to 
observe,  at  first,  that  the  stranger  himself  had  a 
deep  tinge  of  negro  blood.  On  hearing  this 
sudden  question,  the  Ethiopian  appeared  to 
change  his  skin,  its  yellow  hue  becoming  a 
ghastly  white,  while,  shaking  and  stammering, 
he  thus  replied  : — 

“ No  ! no  ! There  was  no  colored  man  ! It 
was  an  Irishman  that  hanged  him  last  night,  at 
eight  o’clock.  I came  away  at  seven ! His 
folks  can’t  have  looked  for  him  in  the  orchard 
yet.” 

Scarcely  had  the  yellow  man  spoken,  when  he 
interrupted  himself,  and,  though  he  seemed 
weary  enough  before,  continued  his  journey  at  a 
pace  which  would  have  kept  the  peddler’s  mare 
on  a smart  trot.  Dominicus  stared  after  him  in 
great  perplexity.  If  the  murder  had  not  been 
committed  till  Tuesday  night,  who  was  the 
prophet  that  had  foretold  it,  in  all  its  circum- 
stances, on  Tuesday  morning  % If  Mr.  Higgin- 
botham’s corpse  were  not  yet  discovered  by  his 
own  family,  how  came  the  mulatto,  at  above 
thirty  miles  distance,  to  know  that  he  was  hang- 
ing in  the  orchard,  especially  as  he  had  left 
Kimballfon  before  the  unfortunate  man  was 
hanged  at  all.  These  ambiguous  circumstances, 
with  the  stranger’s  surprise  and  terror,  made 


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180  MR.  HIGGINBOTHAM'S  CATASTROPHE 

Dominicus  think  of  raising  a hue  and  cry  after 
him,  as  an  accomplice  in  the  murder  ; since  a 
murder,  it  seemed,  had  really  been  perpetrated. 

“But  let  the  poor  devil  go,”  thought  the 
5 peddler.  “I  don’t  want  his  black  blood  on  my 
head  ; and  hanging  the  nigger  wouldn’t  unhang 
Mr.  Higginbotham.  Unhang  the  old  gentleman ! 
It’s  a sin,  I know  ; but  I should  hate  to  have 
him  come  to  life  a second  time,  and  give  me  the 

10  lie  I” 

With  these  meditations,  Dominicus  Pike 
drove  into  the  street  of  Parker’s  Falls,  which,  as 
everybody  knows,  is  as  thriving  a village  as 
three  cotton  factories  and  a slitting-mill  can 
15  make  it.  The  machinery  was  not  in  motion, 
and  but  a few  of  the  shop-doors  unbarred,  when 
he  alighted  in  the  stable  yard  of  the  tavern,  and 
made  it  his  first  business  to  order  the  mare  four 
quarts  of  oats.  His  second  duty,  of  course,  was 
20  to  impart  Mr.  Higginbotham’s  catastrophe  to 
the  hostler.  He  deemed  it  advisable,  however, 
not  to  be  too  positive  as  to  the  date  of  the  dire- 
ful fact,  and  also  to  be  uncertain  whether  it 
were  perpetrated  by  an  Irishman  and  a mulatto, 
25  or  by  the  son  of  Erin  alone.  Neither  did  he 
profess  to  relate  it  on  his  own  authority,  or  that 
of  any  one  person  ; but  mentioned  it  as  a report 
generally  diffused. 

14  Slitting-mill.  A mill  where  iron  bars  or  plates  are  slit  into  narrow 
strips. 


MB.  HIGGINBOTHAM’S  CATASTROPHE  181 

The  story  ran  through  the  town,  like  fire 
among  girdled  trees,  and  became  so  much  the 
universal  talk  that  nobody  could  tell  whence  it 
had  originated.  Mr.  Higginbotham  was  as  well 
known  at  Parker’s  Falls  as  any  citizen  of  the 
place,  being  part  owner  of  the  slitting-mill,  and 
a considerable  stockholder  in  the  cotton  factories. 
The  inhabitants  felt  their  own  prosperity  inter- 
ested in  his  fate.  Such  was  the  excitement 
that  the  Parker’s  Falls  Gazette  anticipated  its 
regular  day  of  publication,  and  came  out  with 
half  a form  of  blank  paper  and  a column  of 
double  pica,  emphasized  with  capitals,  and 
headed  HORRID  MURDER  OF  MR.  HIGGIN- 
BOTHAM ! Among  other  dreadful  details,  the 
printed  account  described  the  mark  of  the  cord 
round  the  dead  man’s  neck,  and  stated  the 
number  of  thousand  dollars  of  which  he  had 
been  robbed  ; there  was  much  pathos  also  about 
the  affliction  of  his  niece,  who  had  gone  from  one 
fainting  fit  to  another,  ever  since  her  uncle  was 
found  hanging  on  the  St.  Michael’s  pear-tree 
with  his  pockets  inside  out.  The  village  poet 
likewise  commemorated  the  young  lady’s  grief 
in  seventeen  stanzas  of  a ballad.  The  selectmen 
held  a meeting,  and,  in  consideration  of  Mr. 
Higginbotham’s  claims  on  the  town,  determined 
to  issue  handbills  offering  a reward  of  five  hun- 


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13  Double  pica.  A very  large  type. 


182  MR.  HIGGINBOTHAM'S  CATASTROPHE 


dred  dollars  for  the  apprehension  of  his  mur- 
derers and  the  recovery  of  the  stolen  property. 

Meanwhile  the  whole  population  of  Parker’s 
Falls,  consisting  of  shopkeepers,  mistresses  of 
5 boarding-houses,  factory-girls,  millmen,  and 
schoolboys,  rushed  into  the  street  and  kept  up 
such  a terrible  loquacity  as  more  than  compen- 
sated for  the  silence  of  the  cotton-machines, 
which  refrained  from  their  usual  din  out  of 
10  respect  to  the  deceased.  Had  Mr.  Higginbotham 
cared  about  posthumous  renown,  his  untimely 
ghost  would  have  exulted  in  this  tumult.  Our 
friend  Dominicus,  in  his  vanity  of  heart,  forgot 
his  intended  precautions,  and  mounting  on  the 
15  town-pump,  announced  himself  as  the  bearer  of 
the  authentic  intelligence  which  had  caused  so 
wonderful  a sensation.  He  immediately  became 
the  great  man  of  the  moment,  and  had  just 
begun  a new  edition  of  the  narrative,  with  a 
20  voice  like  a field-preacher,  when  the  mail-stage 
drove  into  the  village  street.  It  had  traveled 
all  night,  and  must  have  shifted  horses  at  Kim- 
ballton  at  three  in  the  morning. 

“Now  we  shall  hear  all  the  particulars,” 
25  shouted  the  crowd. 

The  coach  rumbled  up  to  the  piazza  of  the 
tavern,  followed  by  a thousand  people ; for  if 
any  man  had  been  minding  his  own  business  till 
then,  he  now  left  it  at  sixes  and  sevens,  to  hear 
30  the  news.  The  peddler,  foremost  in  the  race,  dis- 


MR.  HIGGINBOTHAM’S  CATASTROPHE  183 

covered  two  passengers,  both  of  whom  had  been 
startled  from  a comfortable  nap  to  find  them- 
selves in  the  center  of  a mob.  Every  man 
assailing  them  with  separate  questions,  all  pro- 
pounded at  once,  .the  couple  were  struck  speech- 
less, though  one  was  a lawyer  and  the  other  a 
young  lady. 

“Mr.  Higginbotham!  Mr.  Higginbotham! 
Tell  us  the  particulars  about  old  Mr.  Higgin- 
botham ! ” bawled  the  mob.  “What  is  the 
coroner’s  verdict  1 Are  the  murderers  appre- 
hended ? Is  Mr.  Higginbotham’s  niece  come  out 
of  her  fainting-fits?  Mr.  Higginbotham!  Mr. 
Higginbotham  ! ” 

The  coachman  said  not  a word,  except  to 
swear  awfully  at  the  hostler  for  not  bringing 
him  a fresh  team  of  horses.  The  lawyer  inside 
had  generally  his  wits  about  him,  even  when 
asleep  ; the  first  thing  he  did,  after  learning  the 
cause  of  the  excitement,  was  to  produce  a large 
red  pocketbook.  Meantime  Dominicus  Pike, 
being  an  extremely  polite  young  man,  and  also 
suspecting  that  a female  tongue  would  tell  the 
story  as  glibly  as  a lawyer’s,  had  handed  the 
lady  out  of  the  coach.  She  was  a fine  smart 
girl,  now  wide  awake  and  bright  as  a button, 
and  had  such  a sweet  pretty  mouth  that  Do- 
minicus would  almost  as  lief  have  heard  a love- 
tale  from  it  as  a tale  of  murder. 

“Gentlemen  and  ladies,”  said  the  lawyer  to 


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184  MR.  HIGGINBOTHAM’S  CATASTROPHE 

the  shopkeepers,  the  millmen,  and  the  factory- 
girls,  “I  can  assure  you  that  some  unaccount- 
able mistake,  or  more  probably  a willful  falsehood 
maliciously  contrived  to  injure  Mr.  Higgin- 
5botham’s  credit,  has  excited  this  singular  uproar. 
We  passed  through  Kimballton  at  three  o’clock 
this  morning,  and  most  certainly  should  have 
been  informed  of  the  murder,  had  any  been 
perpetrated.  But  I have  proof  nearly  as  strong 
10 as  Mr.  Higginbotham’s  own  oral  testimony  in 
the  negative.  Here  is  a note  relating  to  a suit 
of  his  in  the  Connecticut  courts,  which  was  deliv- 
ered me  from  that  gentleman  himself.  I find  it 
dated  at  ten  o’clock  last  evening.” 

15  So  saying,  the  lawyer  exhibited  the  date  and 
signature  of  the  note,  which  irrefragably  proved, 
either  that  this  perverse  Mr.  Higginbotham  was 
alive  when  he  wrote-  it,  or — as  some  deemed  the 
more  probable  case  of  two  doubtful  ones — that 
20  he  was  so  absorbed  in  worldly  business  as  to 
continue  to  transact  it  even  after  his  death. 
But  unexpected  evidence  was  forthcoming.  The 
young  lady,  after  listening  to  the  peddler’s  expla- 
nation, merely  seized  a moment  to  smooth  her 
25  gown  and  put  her  curls  in  order,  and  then  ap- 
peared at  the  tavern  door,  making  a modest 
signal  to  be  heard. 

“Good  people,”  said  she,  “I  am  Mr.  Higgin- 
botham’s niece.” 

30  A wondering  murmur  passed  through  the 


MR.  HIGGINBOTHAM’S  CATASTROPHE  185 

crowd  on  beholding  her  so  rosy  and  bright,  that 
same  unhappy  niece  whom  they  had  supposed, 
on  the  authority  of  the  Parker’s  Falls  Gazette , 
to  be  lying  at  death’s  door  in  a fainting-fit.  But 
some  shrewd  fellows  had  doubted  all  along  5 
whether  a young  lady  would  be  quite  so  desper- 
ate at  the  hanging  of  a rich  old  uncle. 

“You  see,”  continued  Miss  Higginbotham 
with  a smile,  “ that  this  strange  story  is  quite 
unfounded  as  to  myself,  and  I believe  I mayio 
affirm  it  to  be  equally  so  in  regard  to  my  dear 
uncle  Higginbotham.  He  has  the  kindness  to 
give  me  a home  in  his  house,  though  I contribute 
to  my  own  support  by  teaching  a school.  I left 
Kimballton  this  morning  to  spend  the  vacation  15 
of  commencement- week  with  a friend,  about  five 
miles  from  Parker’s  Falls.  My  generous  uncle, 
when  he  heard  me  on  the  stairs,  called  me  to  his 
bedside,  and  gave  me  two  dollars  and  fifty  cents 
to  pay  my  stage-fare,  and  another  dollar  for  my  20 
extra  expenses.  He  then  laid  his  pocketbook 
under  his  pillow,  shook  hands  with  me,  and 
advised 'me  to  take  some  biscuit  in  my  bag,  in- 
stead of  breakfasting  on  the  road.  I feel  confi- 
dent, therefore,  that  I left  my  beloved  relative  25 
alive,  and  trust  that  I shall  find  him  so  on  my 
return.” 

The  young  lady  courtesied  at  the  close  of  her 
speech,  which  was  so  sensible  and  well  worded, 
and  delivered  with  such  grace  and  propriety,  that  30 


186  MR.  HIGGINBOTHAM'S  CATASTROPHE 


everybody  thought  her  fit  to  be  preceptress  of 
the  best  academy  in  the  state.  But  a stranger 
would  have  supposed  that  Mr.  Higginbotham 
was  an  object  of  abhorrence  at  Parker’s  Falls, 
5 and  that  a thanksgiving  had  been  proclaimed  for 
his  murder,  so  excessive  was  the  wrath  of  the 
inhabitants  on  learning  their  mistake.  The 
millmen  resolved  to  bestow  public  honors  on 
Dominicus  Pike,  only  hesitating  whether  to  tar 
10 and  feather  him,  ride  him  on  a rail,  or  refresh 
him  with  an  ablution  at  the  town-pump,  on  the 
top  of  which  he  had  declared  himself  the  bearer 
of  the  news.  The  selectmen,  by  advice  of  the 
lawyer,  spoke  of  prosecuting  him  for  a misde- 
i5meanor,  in  circulating  unfounded  reports,  to  the 
great  disturbance  of  the  peace  of  the  common- 
wealth. Nothing  saved  Dominicus  either  from 
mob  law  or  a court  of  justice  but  an  eloquent 
appeal  made  by  the  young  lady  in  his  behalf. 
20  Addressing  a few  words  of  heartfelt  gratitude  to 
his  benefactress,  he  mounted  the  green  cart  and 
rode  out  of  town,  under  a discharge  of  artillery 
from  the  Schoolboys,  who  found  plenty  of  am- 
munition in  the  neighboring  clay-pits  and  mud- 
25  holes.  As  he  turned  his  head,  to  exchange  a 
farewell  glance  with  Mr.  Higginbotham’s  niece, 
a ball,  of  the  consistence  of  liasty-pudding,  hit 
him  slap  in  the  mouth,  giving  him  a most  grim 
aspect.  His  whole  person  was  so  bespattered 
30  with  the  like  filthy  missiles,  that  he  had  almost 


MR.  HIGGINBOTHAM’ 8 CATASTROPHE  187 

a mind  to  ride  back  and  supplicate  for  the 
threatened  ablution  at  the  town-pump,  for, 
though  not  meant  in  kindness,  it  would  have 
been  a deed  of  charity. 

However,  the  sun  shone  bright  on  poor  Domin- 
icus,  and  the  mud,  an  emblem  of  all  stains  of 
undeserved  opprobrium,  was  easily  brushed  off 
when  dry.  Being  a funny  rogue,  his  heart  soon 
cheered  up ; nor  could  he  refrain  from  a hearty 
laugh  at  the  uproar  which  his  story  had  excited. 
The  handbills  of  the  selectmen  would  cause  the 
commitment  of  all  the  vagabonds  in  the  state; 
the  paragraph  in  the  Parker’s  Falls  Gazette 
would  be  reprinted  from  Maine  to  Florida,  and 
perhaps  form  an  item  in  the  London  newspapers; 
and  many  a miser  would  tremble  for  his  money- 
bags  and  life,  on  learning  the  catastrophe  of 
Mr.  Higginbotham.  The  peddler  meditated  with 
much  fervor  on  the  charms  of  the  young  school- 
mistress, and  swore  that  Daniel  Webster  never 
spoke  nor  looked  so  like  an  angel  as  Miss 
Higginbotham  while  defending  him  from  the 
wrathful  populace  at  Parker’s  Falls. 

Dominicus  was  now  on  the  Kimballton  turn- 
pike, having  all  along  determined  to  visit  that 
place,  though  business  had  drawn  him  out  of  the 
most  direct  road  from  Morristown.  As  he  ap- 
proached the  scene  of  the  supposed  murder  he 

20  Daniel  Webster  was  sometimes  called  the  divine  Webster  because 
of  his  eloquence. 


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188  MB.  HIGGINBOTHAM'S  CATASTROPHE 

continued  to  revolve  the  circumstances  in  his 
mind,  and  was  astonished  at  the  aspect  which 
the  whole  case  assumed.  Had  nothing  occurred 
to  corroborate  the  story  of  the  first  traveler,  it 
5 might  now  have  been  considered  as  a hoax  ; but 
the  yellow  man  was  evidently  acquainted  either 
with  the  report  or  the  fact,  and  there  was  a mys- 
tery in  his  dismayed  and  guilty  look  on  being 
abruptly  questioned.  When  to  this  singular 
10  combination  of  incidents  it  was  added  that  the 
rumor  tallied  exactly  with  Mr.  Higginbotham’s 
character  and  habits  of  life  ; and  that  he  had  an 
orchard,  and  a St.  Michael’s  pear-tree,  near  which 
he  always  passed  at  nightfall ; the  circumstantial 
15  evidence  appeared  so  strong  that  Dominicus 
doubted  whether  the  autograph  produced  by  the 
lawyer,  or  even  the  niece’s  direct  testimony, 
ought  to  be  equivalent.  Making  cautious  in- 
quiries  along  the  road,  the  peddler  further 
20  learned  that  Mr.  Higginbotham  had  in  his  service 
an  Irishman  of  doubtful  character,  whom  he  had 
hired  without  a recommendation,  on  the  score  of 
economy. 

“ May  I be  hanged  myself,”  exclaimed  Domin- 
25  icus  Pike  aloud,  on  reaching  the  top  of  a lonely 
hill,  “if  I’ll  believe  old  Higginbotham  is  un- 
hanged till  I see  him  with  my  own  eyes,  and 
hear  it  from  his  own  mouth ! And  as  he’s  a real 
shaver,  I’ll  have  the  minister,  or  some  other 
30  responsible  man,  for  an  indorser.” 


MR.  HIGGINBOTHAM’S  CATASTROPHE  189 

It  was  growing  dusk  when  he  reached  the  toll- 
house on  Kimballton  turnpike,  about  a quarter  of 
a mile  from  the  village  of  this  name.  His  little 
mare  was  fast  bringing  him  up  with  a man  on 
horseback,  who  trotted  through  the  gate  a few  5 
rods  in  advance  of  him,  nodded  to  the  toll-gatli- 
erer,  and  kept  on  towards  the  village.  Dominicus 
was  acquainted  with  the  tollman,  and,  while 
making  change,  the  usual  remarks  on  the  weather 
passed  between  them.  10 

“I  suppose,”  said  the  peddler,  throwing  back 
his  whiplash,  to  bring  it  down  like  a feather  on 
the  mare’s  flank,  “ you  have  not  seen  anything 
of  old  Mr.  Higginbotham  within  a day  or  two?” 

“Yes,”  answered  the  toll-gatherer.  “ He  15 
passed  the  gate  just  before  you  drove  up,  and 
yonder  he  rides  now,  if  you  can  see  him  through 
the  dusk.  He’s  been  to  Woodfield  this  after- 
noon, attending  a sheriff’s  sale  there.  The  old 
man  generally  shakes  hands  and  has  a little  chat 20 
with  me  ; but  to-night  he  nodded, — as  if  to  say, 
‘charge  my  toll,’ — and  jogged  on  ; for  wherever 
he  goes,  he  must  always  be  at  home  by  eight 
o’clock.” 

“ So  they  tell  me,”  said  Dominicus.  25 

“ I never  saw  a man  look  so  yellow  and  thin  as 
the  squire  does,”  continued  the  toll-gatherer. 

“ Says  I to  myself,  to-night,  he’s  more  like  a 
ghost  or  an  old  mummy  than  good  flesh  and 
blood.”  30 


190  MB.  HIGGINBOTHAM’S  CATASTROPHE 

The  peddler  strained  his  eyes  through  the  twi- 
light, and  could  just  discern  the  horseman  now 
far  ahead  on  the  village  road.  He  seemed  to 
recognize  the  rear  of  Mr.  Higginbotham  ; but 
5 through  the  evening  shadows,  and  amid  the  dust 
from  the  horse’s  feet,  the  figure  appeared  dim 
and  unsubstantial  ; as  if  the  shape  of  the  mys- 
terious old  man  were  faintly  molded  of  darkness 
and  gray  light.  Dominicus  shivered. 

10  “Mr.  Higginbotham  has  come  back  from  the 
other  world,  by  way  of  the  Kimballton  turnpike,” 
thought  he. 

He  shook  the  reins  and  rode  forward,  keeping 
about  the  same  distance  in  the  rear  of  the  gray 
15  old  shadow,  till  the  latter  was  concealed  by  a 
bend  of  the  road.  On  reaching  this  point  the 
peddler  no  longer  saw  the  man  on  horseback,  but 
found  himself  at  the  head  of  the  village  street, 
not  far  from  a number  of  stores  and  two  taverns, 
20  clustered  round  the  meeting-house  steeple.  On 
his  left  was  a stone  wall  and  a gate,  the  boundary 
of  a wood-lot,  beyond  which  lay  an  orchard, 
farther  still  a mowing-field,  and  last  of  all  a 
house.  These  were  the  premises  of  Mr.  Higgin- 
25botham,  whose  dwelling  stood  beside  the  old 
highway,  but  had  been  left  in  the  background 
by  the  Kimballton  turnpike.  Dominicus  knew 
the  place  ; and  the  little  mare  stopped  short 
by  instinct ; for  he  was  not  conscious  of  tight- 
30  ening  the  reins. 


MB.  HIGGINBOTHAM’S  GATASTBOPHE  191 


“For  the  soul  of  me,  I cannot  get  by  this 
gate!”  said  he,  trembling.  “I  shall  never  be 
my  own  man  again  till  I see  whether  Mr.  Higgin- 
botham is  hanging  on  the  St.  Michael’s  pear- 
tree  ! ” 

He  leaped  from  the  cart,  gave  the  rein  a turn 
round  the  gate-post,  and  ran  along  the  green 
path  of  the  wood-lot  as  if  Old  Nick  were  chasing 
behind.  Just  then  the  village  clock  tolled  eight, 
and  as  each  deep  stroke  fell  Dominicus  gave 
a fresh  bound  and  flew  faster  than  before,  till, 
dim  in  the  solitary  center  of  the  orchard,  he  saw 
the  fated  pear-tree.  One  great  branch  stretched 
from  the  old  contorted  trunk  across  the  path, 
and  threw  the  darkest  shadow  on  that  one  spot. 
But  something  seemed  to  struggle  beneath  the 
branch ! 

The  peddler  had  never  pretended  to  more  cour- 
age than  befits  a man  of  peaceable  occupation, 
nor  could  he  account  for  his  valor  on  this  awful 
emergency.  Certain  it  is,  however,  that  he  rushed 
forward,  prostrated  a sturdy  Irishman  with  the 
butt-end  of  his  whip,  and  found — not  indeed 
hanging  on  the  St.  Michael’s  pear-tree,  but  trem- 
bling beneath  it,  with  a halter  round  his  neck — 
the  old,'  identical  Mr.  Higginbotham  ! 

“Mr.  Higginbotham,”  said  Dominicus  trem- 
ulously, “you’re  an  honest  man,  and  I’ll  take 
your  word  for  it.  Have  you  been  hanged,  or 
not  1” 


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192  MB.  HIGGINBOTHAM'S  CATASTROPHE 


If  the  riddle  be  not  already  guessed,  a few 
words  will  explain  the  simple  machinery  by 
which  this  “ coming  event  ” was  made  to  “ cast 
its  shadow  before.”  Three  men  had  plotted  the 
5 robbery  and  murder  of  Mr.  Higginbotham  ; two 
of  them  successively  lost  courage  and  fled,  each 
delaying  the  crime  one  night,  by  their  disap- 
pearance ; the  third  was  in  the  act  of  perpetra- 
tion, when  a champion,  blindly  obeying  the  call 
10  of  fate  like  the  heroes  of  old  romance,  appeared 
in  the  person  of  Dominions  Pike. 

It  only  remains  to  say  that  Mr.  Higginbotham 
took  the  peddler  into  high  favor,  sanctioned  his 
addresses  to  the  pretty  schoolmistress,  and  set- 
15  tied  his  whole  property  on  their  children,  allowing 
themselves  the  interest.  In  due  time  the  old 
gentleman  capped  the  climax  of  his  favors  by 
dying  a Christian  death  in  bed,  since  which 
melancholy  event  Dominions  Pike  has  removed 
20  from  Kimballton  and  established  a large  tobacco 
manufactory  in  my  native  village. 


THE  PROPHETIC  PICTURES  * 


‘'But  this  painter!  ” cried  Walter  Ludlow, 
with  animation.  “He  not  only  excels  in  his 
peculiar  art,  but  possesses  vast  acquirements  in 
all  other  learning  and  science.  He  talks  Hebrew 
with  Doctor  Mather,  and  gives  lectures  in  5 
anatomy  to  Doctor  Boylston.  In  a word,  he 
will  meet  the  best  instructed  man  among  us  on 
his  own  ground.  Moreover,  he  is  a polished 
gentleman — a citizen  of  the  world — yes,  a true 
cosmopolite ; for  he  will  speak  like  a native  of  10 
each  clime  and  country  on  the  globe,  except  our 
own  forests,  whither  he  is  now  going.  Nor  is 
this  all  that  I most  admire  in  him.” 

“Indeed!”  said  Elinor,  who  had  listened 
with  a woman’s  interest  to  the  description  of  15 
such  a man.  “ Yet  this  is  admirable  enough.” 

“Surely  it  is,”  replied  her  lover,  “but  far 
less  so  than  his  natural  gift  of  adapting  himself 


*This  story  was  suggested  by  an  anecdote  of  Stuart  related  in  Dun- 
lap’s “ History  of  the  Arts  of  Design  ” — a most  entertaining  book  to  the 
general  reader,  and  a deeply  interesting  one,  we  should  think,  to  the 
artist. — Hawthorne's  Note. 

6 Doctor  Mather.  Cotton  Mather  (1663-1728),  theologian  and  writer. 

6 Doctor  Boylston  (1680-1766).  An  eminent  physician. 

193 


194 


THE  PROPHETIC  PICTURES 


to  every  variety  of  character,  insomuch  that  all 
men — and  all  women  too,  Elinor— shall  find  a 
mirror  of  themselves  in  this  wonderful  painter. 
But  the  greatest  wonder  is  yet  to  be  told.” 

5 “Nay,  if  he  have  more  wonderful  attributes 
than  these,”  said  Elinor,  laughing,  “ Boston  is 
a perilous  abode  for  the  poor  gentleman.  Are 
you  telling  me  of  a painter,  or  a wizard  ? ” 

“In  truth,”  answered  he,  “that  question 
10  might  be  asked  much  more  seriously  than  you 
suppose.  They  say  that  he  paints  not  merely 
a man’s  features,  but  his  mind  and  heart.  He 
catches  the  secret  sentiments  and  passions,  and 
throws  them  upon  the  canvas,  like  sunshine — or 
15  perhaps,  in  the  portraits  of  dark-souled  men, 
like  a gleam  of  infernal  fire.  It  is  an  awful 
gift,”  added  Walter,  lowering  his  voice  from  its 
tone  of  enthusiasm.  “I  shall  be  almost  afraid 
to  sit  to  him.” 

so  “Walter,  are  you  in  earnest?”  exclaimed 
Elinor. 

“For  Heaven’s  sake,  dearest  Elinor,  do  not 
let  him  paint  the  look  which  you  now  wear!” 
said  her  lover,  smiling,  though  rather  perplexed. 
25  “ There — it  is  passing  away  now,  but  when  you 
spoke  you  seemed  frightened  to  death,  and 
very  sad  besides.  What  were  you  thinking 
of?” 

“Nothing,  nothing,”  answered  Elinor  hastily. 
30  “ You  paint  my  face  with  your  own  fantasies. 


THE  PROPHETIC  PICTURES 


195 


Well,  come  for  me  to-morrow,  and  we  will  visit 
this  wonderful  artist.” 

But  when  the  young  man  had  departed  it 
cannot  be  denied  that  a remarkable  expression 
was  again  visible  on  the  fair  and  youthful  face  of 
his  mistress.  It  was  a sad  and  anxious  look, 
little  in  accordance  with  what  should  have  been 
the  feelings  of  a maiden  on  the  eve  of  wedlock. 
Yet  Walter  Ludlow  was  the  chosen  of  her  heart. 

“A  look!”  said  Elinor  to  herself.  “No 
wonder  that  it  startled  him,  if  it  expressed  what 
I sometimes  feel.  I know,  by  my  own  experi- 
ence, how  frightful  a look  may  be.  But  it  was 
all  fancy.  I thought  nothing  of  it  at  the  time — 
I have  seen  nothing  of  it  since — I did  but  dream 
it.” 

And  she  busied  herself  about  the  embroidery 
of  a ruif,  in  which  she  meant  that  her  portrait 
should  be  taken. 

The  painter  of  whom  they  had  been  speaking 
was  not  one  of  those  native  artists  who,  at  a later 
period  than  this,  borrowed  their  colors  from  the 
Indians,  and  manufactured  their  pencils  of  the 
furs  of  wild  beasts.  Perhaps,  if  he  could  have 
revoked  his  life  and  pre-arranged  his  destiny, 
he  might  have  chosen  to  belong  to  that  school 
without  a master,  in  the  hope  of  being  at  least 
original,  since  there  were  no  works  of  art  to 
imitate,  nor  rules  to  follow.  But  he  had  been 
born  and  educated  in  Europe.  People  said  that 


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30 


196 


THE  PROPHETIC  PICTURES 


he  had  studied  the  grandeur  or  beauty  of  con- 
ception, and  every  touch  of  the  master-hand,  in 
all  the  most  famous  pictures,  in  cabinets  and 
galleries,  and  on  the  walls  of  churches,  till  there 
5 was  nothing  more  for  his  powerful  mind  to 
learn.  Art  could  add  nothing  to  its  lessons,  but 
Nature  might.  He  had  therefore  visited  a 
world  whither  none  of  his  professional  brethren 
had  preceded  him,  to  feast  his  eyes  on  visible 
10  images  that  were  noble  and  picturesque,  yet 
had  never  been  transferred  to  canvas.  America 
was  too  poor  to  afford  other  temptations  to  an 
artist  of  eminence,  though  many  of  the  colonial 
gentry,  on  the  painter’s  arrival,  had  expressed 
15  a wish  to  transmit  their  lineaments  to  posterity 
by  means  of  his  skill.  Whenever  such  pro- 
posals were  made  he  fixed  his  piercing  eyes  on 
the  applicant,  and  seemed  to  look  him  through 
and  through.  If  he  beheld  only  a sleek  and 
20  comfortable  visage,  though  there  were  a gold- 
laced  coat  to  adorn  the  picture,  and  golden 
guineas  to  pay  for  it,  he  civilly  rejected  the 
task  and  the  reward.  But  if  the  face  were  the 
index  of  anything  uncommon,  in  thought,  senti- 
25  ment,  or  experience  ; or  if  he  met  a beggar  in 
the  street,  with  a white  beard  and  a furrowed 
brow  ; or  if  sometimes  a child  happened  to  look 
up  and  smile  ; he  would  exhaust  all  the  art  on 
them  that  he  denied  to  wealth. 

30  Pictorial  skill  being  so  rare  in  the  colonies, 


THE  PROPHETIC  PICTURES 


197 


the  painter  became  an  object  of  general  curiosity. 
If  few  or  none  could  appreciate  the  technical 
merit  of  his  productions,  yet  there  were  points  in 
regard  to  which  the  opinion  of  the  crowd  was  as 
valuable  as  the  refined  judgment  of  the  amateur. 
He  watched  the  effect  that  each  picture  pro- 
duced on  such  untutored  beholders,  and  derived 
profit  from  their  remarks,  while  they  would  as 
soon  have  thought  of  instructing  Nature  herself 
as  him  who  seemed  to  rival  her.  Their  admira- 
tion, it  must  be  owned,  was  tinctured  with  the 
prejudices  of  the  age  and  country.  Some 
deemed  it  an  offense  against  the  Mosaic  law, 
and  even  a presumptuous  mockery  of  the 
Creator,  to  bring  into  existence  such  lively 
images  of  his  creatures.  Others,  frightened  at 
the  art  which  could  raise  phantoms  at  will,  and 
keep  the  form  of  the  dead  among  the  living, 
were  inclined  to  consider  the  painter  as  a 
magician,  or  perhaps  the  famous  Black  Man, 
of  old  witch  times,  plotting  mischief  in  a new 
guise.  These  foolish  fancies  were  more  than 
half  believed  among  the  mob.  Even  in  superior 
circles  his  character  was  invested  with  a vague 
awe,  partly  rising  like  smoke-wreaths  from  the 


13  An  offense  against  the  Mosaic  law.  Reference  is  to  the  second 
commandment : Thou  shalt  not  make  unto  thee  any  graven  image , or 
any  likeness , etc. 

20  The  famous  Black  Man.  A reference  to  a colonial  superstition  ; 
the  devil. 


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25 


198 


THE  PROPHETIC  PICTURES 


popular  superstitions,  but  chiefly  caused  by  the 
varied  knowledge  and  talents  which  he  made 
subservient  to  his  profession. 

Being  on  the  eve  of  marriage,  Walter  Ludlow 
5 and  Elinor  were  eager  to  obtain  their  portraits, 
as  the  first  of  what,  they  doubtless  hoped, 
would  be  a long  series  of  family  pictures.  The 
day  after  the  conversation  above  recorded,  they 
visited  the  painter’s  rooms.  A servant  ushered 
10  them  into  an  apartment,  where,  though  the 
artist  himself  was  not  visible,  there  were  per- 
sonages whom  they  could  hardly  forbear  greet- 
ing with  reverence.  They  knew,  indeed,  that 
the  whole  assembly  were  but  pictures,  yet  felt 
15  it  impossible  to  separate  the  idea  of  life  and 
intellect  from  such  striking  counterfeits. 
Several  of  the  portraits  were  known  to  them, 
either  as  distinguished  characters  of  the  day,  or 
their  private  acquaintances.  There  was  Gov- 
20  ernor  Burnet,  looking  as  if  he  had  just  received 
an  undutiful  communication  from  the  House  of 
Representatives,  and  were  inditing  a most  sharp 
response.  Mr.  Cooke  hung  beside  the  ruler 
whom  he  opposed,  sturdy,  and  somewhat  puri- 
25  tanical,  as  befitted  a popular  leader.  The 
ancient  lady  of  Sir  William  Phipps  eyed  them 
from  the  wall,  in  ruff  and  farthingale,  an  im- 

20  Governor  Burnet  (1688-1729).  A colonial  governor,  first  of  New 
York  and  New  Jersey,  and  afterwards  of  Massachusetts. 

26  Sir  William  Phipps  (1651-1695).  Governor  of  Massachusetts. 


THE  PROPHETIC  PICTURES 


199 


perious  old  dame,  not  unsuspected  of  witch- 
craft. John  Winslow,  then  a very  young  man, 
wore  the  expression  of  warlike  enterprise,  which 
long  afterwards  made  him  a distinguished 
general.  Their  personal  friends  were  recog- 
nized at  a glance.  In  most  of  the  pictures  the 
whole  mind  and  character  were  brought  out  on 
the  countenance,  and  concentrated  into  a single 
look ; so  that,  to  speak  paradoxically,  the 
originals  hardly  resembled  themselves  so  strik- 
ingly as  the  portraits  did. 

Among  these  modern  worthies  there  were 
two  old  bearded  saints,  who  had  almost  van- 
ished into  the  darkening  canvas.  There  was 
also  a pale  but  unfaded  Madonna,  who  had 
perhaps  been  worshiped  in  Rome,  and  now 
regarded  the  lovers  with  such  a mild  and  holy 
look  that  they  longed  to  worship  too. 

“How  singular  a thought,”  observed  Walter 
Ludlow,  “that  this  beautiful  face  has  been 
beautiful  for  above  two  hundred  years ! Oh, 
if  all  beauty  would  endure  so  well ! Do  you 
not  envy  her,  Elinor  ? ” 

“ If  earth  were  Heaven,  I might,”  she  replied. 
“ But  where  all  things  fade,  how  miserable  to  be 
the  one  that  could  not  fade  ! ” 

“ This  dark  old  St.  Peter  has  a fierce  and  ugly 
scowl,  saint  though  he  be,”  continued  Walter. 
“He  troubles  me.  But  the  Virgin  looks  kindly 
at  ns.” 


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200 


THE  PROPHETIC  PICTURES 


“Yes;  but  very  sorrowfully,  me  thinks,”  said 
Elinor. 

The  easel  stood  beneath  these  three  old  pic- 
tures, sustaining  one  that  had  been  recently 
5 commenced.  After  a little  inspection  they 
began  to  recognize  the  features  of  their  own 
minister,  the  Rev.  Dr.  Colman,  growing  into 
shape  and  life,  as  it  were,  out  of  a cloud. 

“Kind  old  man!”  exclaimed  Elinor.  “He 
10  gazes  at  me  as  if  he  were  about  to  utter  a word 
of  paternal  advice.” 

“And  at  me,”  said  Walter,  “as  if  he  were 
about  to  shake  his  head  and  rebuke  me  for 
some  suspected  iniquity.  But  so  does  the 
15  original.  I shall  never  feel  quite  comfortable 
under  his  eye  till  we  stand  before  him  to  be 
married.” 

They  now  heard  a footstep  on  the  floor,  and, 
turning,  beheld  the  painter,  who  had  been  some 
20  moments  in  the  room,  and  had  listened  to  a few 
of  their  remarks.  He  was  a middle-aged  man, 
with  a countenance  well  worthy  of  his  own 
pencil.  Indeed,  by  the  picturesque,  though 
careless  arrangement  of  his  rich  dress,  and, 
25  perhaps,  because  his  soul  dwelt  always  among 
painted  shapes,  he  looked  somewhat  like  a 
portrait  himself.  His  visitors  were  sensible  of 
a kindred  between  the  artist  and  his  works,  and 


7 Rev.  Dr.  Colman  (1673-1747).  A Boston  clergyman  and  author. 


' THE  PROPHETIC  PICTURES  201 

felt  as  if  one  of  the  pictures  had  stepjied  from 
the  canvas  to  salute  them. 

Walter  Ludlow,  who  was  slightly  known  to 
the  painter,  explained  the  object  of  their  visit. 
While  he  spoke,  a sunbeam  was  falling  athwart 
his  figure  and  Elinor’s,  with  so  happy  an  effect 
that  they  also  seemed  living  pictures  of  youth 
and  beauty,  gladdened  by  bright  fortune.  The 
artist  was  evidently  struck. 

“ My  easel  is  occupied  for  several  ensuing 
days,  and  my  stay  in  Boston  must  be  brief,” 
said  he  thoughtfully ; then,  after  an  observant 
glance,  he  added:  “but  your  wishes  shall  be 
gratified,  though  I disappoint  the  Chief  Justice 
and  Madame  Oliver.  I must  not  lose  this 
opportunity,  for  the  sake  of  painting  a few  ells 
of  broadcloth  and  brocade.” 

The  painter  expressed  a desire  to  introduce 
both  their  portraits  into  one  picture,  and  repre- 
sent them  engaged  in  some  appropriate  action. 
This  plan  would  have  delighted  the  lovers,  but 
was  necessarily  rejected,  because  so  large  a 
space  of  canvas  would  have  been  unfit  for  the 
room  which  it  was  intended  to  decorate.  Two 
half-length  portraits  were  therefore  fixed  upon. 
After  they  had  taken  leave  Walter  Ludlow 
asked  Elinor,  with  a smile,  whether  she  knew 


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25 


14  Chief  Justice  Oliver  (1707-1774).  An  American  magistrate,  Lieu- 
tenant Governor  of  Massachusetts. 


202 


THE  PROPHETIC  PICTURES 


what  an  influence  over  their  fates  the  painter 
was  about  to  acquire. 

“The  old  women  of  Boston  affirm,”  continued 
he,  “ that  after  he  has  once  got  possession  of 
5 a person’s  face  and  figure,  he  may  paint  him  in 
any  act  or  situation  whatever,  and  the  picture 
will  be  prophetic.  Do  you  believe  it?  ” 

“Not  quite,”  said  Elinor,  smiling.  “Yet  if 
he  has  such  magic,  there  is  something  so  gentle 
loin  his  manner  that  I am  sure  he  will  use  it 
well.” 

It  was  the  painter’s  choice  to  proceed  with 
both  portraits  at  the  same  time,  assigning  as 
a reason,  in  the  mystical  language  which  he 
15  sometimes  used,  that  the  faces  threw  light  upon 
each  other.  Accordingly,  he  gave  now  a touch 
to  Walter,  and  now  to  Elinor,  and  the  features 
of  one  and  the  other  began  to  start  forth  so 
vividly  that  it  appeared  as  if  his  triumphant 
20  art  would  actually  disengage  them  from  the 
canvas.  Amid  the  rich  light  and  deep  shade 
they  beheld  their  phantom  selves.  But,  though 
the  likeness  promised  to  be  perfect,  they  were 
not  quite  satisfied  with  the  expression  ; it  seemed 
25  more  vague  than  most  of  the  painter’s  works. 
He,  however,  was  satisfied  with  the  prospect  of 
success,  and,  being  much  interested  in  the  lovers, 
enqiloyed  his  leisure  moments,  unknown  to 
them,  in  making  a crayon  sketch  of  their  two 
30  figures.  During  their  sittings  he  engaged  them 


THE  PROPHETIC  PICTURES 


203 


in  conversation,  and  kindled  up  their  faces  with 
characteristic  traits,  which,  though  continually 
varying,  it  was  his  purpose  to  combine  and  fix. 
At  length  he  announced  that  at  their  next  visit 
both  the  portraits  would  be  ready  for  delivery.  5 
“ If  my  pencil  will  but  be  true  to  my  concep- 
tion, in  the  few  last  touches  which  I meditate,” 
observed  he,  “these  fwo  pictures  will  be  my 
very  best  performances.  Seldom,  indeed,  has  an 
artist  such  subjects.”  10 

While  speaking  he  still  bent  his  penetrative 
eye  upon  them,  nor  withdrew  it  till  they  had 
reached  the  bottom  of  the  stairs. 

Nothing,  in  the  whole  circle  of  human  vanities, 
takes  stronger  hold  of  the  imagination  than  this  15 
affair  of  having  a portrait  painted.  Yet  why 
should  it  be  so  ? The  looking-glass,  the  polished 
globes  of  the  andirons,  the  mirror-like  water, 
and  all  other  reflecting  surfaces,  continually 
present  us  with  portraits,  or  rather  ghosts,  of  20 
ourselves,  which  we  glance  at,  and  straightway 
forget  them.  But  we  forget  them  only  because 
they  vanish.  It  is  the  idea  of  duration — of 
earthly  immortality — that  gives  such  a mysteri- 
ous interest  to  our  own  portraits.  Walter  and  25 
Elinor  were  not  insensible  to  this  feeling,  and 
hastened  to  the  painter’s  room,  punctually  at 
the  appointed  hour,  to  meet  those  pictured 
shapes  which  were  to  be  their  representatives 
with  posterity.  The  sunshine  flashed  after  them  30 


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THE  PROPHETIC  PICTURES 


into  the  apartment,  but  left  it  somewhat  gloomy, 
as  they  closed  the  door. 

Their  eyes  were  immediately  attracted  to  their 
portraits,  which  rested  against  the  farthest  wall 
5 of  the  room.  At  the  first  glance,  through  the 
dim  light  and  the  distance,  seeing  themselves  in 
precisely  their  natural  attitudes,  and  with  all  the 
air  that  they  recognized  so  well,  they  uttered  a 
simultaneous  exclamation  of  delight, 
to  “There  we  stand,”  cried  Walter  enthusiasti- 
cally, “fixed  in  sunshine  for  ever!  No  dark 
passions  can  gather  on  our  faces  ! ” 

“No,”  said  Elinor,  more  calmly  ; “no  dreary 
change  can  sadden  us.” 

15  This  was  said  while  they  were  approaching, 
and  had  yet  gained  only  an  imperfect  view  of  the 
pictures.  The  painter,  after  saluting  them, 
busied  himself  at  a table  in  completing  a crayon 
sketch,  leaving  his  visitors  to  form  their  own 
20  judgment  as  to  his  perfected  labors.  At  inter- 
vals he  sent  a glance  from  beneath  his  deep  eye- 
brows, watching  their  countenances  in  profile, 
with  his  pencil  suspended  over  the  sketch. 
They  had  now  stood  some  moments,  each  in 
25 front  of  the  other’s  picture,  contemplating  it 
with  entranced  attention,  but  without  uttering  a 
word.  At  length  Walter  stepped  forward — then 
back — viewing  Elinor’s  portrait  in  various  lights, 
and  finally  spoke. 

30  “Is  there  not  a change  ? ” said  he,  in  a doubt- 


THE  PROPHETIC  PICTURES 


205 


ful  and  meditative  tone.  “Yes;  the  perception 
of  it  grows  more  vivid  the  longer  I look.  It  is 
certainly  the  same  picture  that  I saw  yesterday  ; 
the  dress — the  features — all  are  the  same  ; and  yet 
something  is  altered.” 

“Is  then  the  picture  less  like  than  it  was 
yesterday?”  inquired  the  painter,  now  drawing 
near,  with  irrepressible  interest. 

“The  features  are  perfect  Elinor,”  answered 
Walter;  “and,  at  the  first  glance,  the  expres- 
sion seemed  also  hers.  But  I could  fancy  that 
the  portrait  has  changed  countenance  while  I 
have  been  looking  at  it.  The  eyes  are  fixed  on 
mine  with  a strangely  sad  and  anxious  expres- 
sion. N ay,  it  is  grief  and  terror ! Is  this  like 
Elinor?  ” 

“ Compare  the  living  face  with  the  pictured 
one,”  said  the  painter. 

Walter  glanced  sidelong  at  his  mistress  and 
started.  Motionless  and  absorbed — fascinated, 
as  it  were — in  contemplation  of  Walter’s  portrait, 
Elinor’s  face  had  assumed  precisely  the  expres- 
sion of  which  he  had  just  been  complaining. 
Had  she  practiced  for  whole  hours  before  a mir- 
ror, she  could  not  have  caught  the  look  so  success- 
fully. Had  the  picture  itself  been  a mirror,  it 
could  not  have  thrown  back  her  present  aspect 
with  stronger  and  more  melancholy  truth.  She 
appeared  quite  unconscious  of  the  dialogue 
between  the  artist  and  her  lover. 


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THE  PROPHETIC  PICTURES 


“Elinor,”  exclaimed  Walter,  in  amazement, 
“ wliat  change  has  come  over  you  1 ” 

She  did  not  hear  him,  nor  desist  from  her  fixed 
gaze,  till  he  seized  her  hand,  and  thus  attracted 
5 her  notice;  then,  with  a sudden  tremor,  she 
looked  from  the  picture  to  the  face  of  the 
original. 

“Do  you  see  no  change  in  your  portrait?” 
asked  she. 

10  “In  mine? — none!”  replied  Walter,  examin- 
ing it.  “ But  let  me  see  ! Yes  ; there  is  a slight 
change — an  improvement,  I think,  in  the  picture, 
though  none  in  the  likeness.  It  has  a livelier 
expression  than  yesterday,  as  if  some  bright 
15  thought  were  flashing  from  the  eyes,  and  about 
to  be  uttered  from  the  lips.  Now  that  I have 
caught  the  look,  it  becomes  very  decided.” 

While  he  was  intent  on  these  observations, 
Elinor  turned  to  the  painter.  She  regarded  him 
20  with  grief  and  awe,  and  felt  that  he  repaid  her 
with  sympathy  and  commiseration,  though 
wherefore  she  could  but  vaguely  guess. 

“ That  look  ! ” whispered  she,  and  shuddered. 
“ How  came  it  there?” 

25  “ Madam,”  said  the  painter  sadly,  taking  her 

hand  and  leading  her  apart,  “in  both  these 
pictures  I have  painted  what  I saw.  The  artist — 
the  true  artist — must  look  beneath  the  exterior. 
It  is  his  gift — his  proudest,  but  often  a melan- 
30choly  one — to  see  the  inmost  soul,  and,  by  a 


THE  PROPHETIC  PICTURES 


207 


power  indefinable  even  to  himself,  to  make  it 
glow  or  darken  upon  the  canvas,  in  glances  that 
express  the  thought  and  sentiment  of  years. 
Would  that  I might  convince  myself  of  error  in 
the  present  instance  ! ” 

They  had  now  approached  the  table,  on  which 
were  heads  in  chalk,  hands  almost  as  expressive 
as  ordinary  faces,  ivied  church-towers,  thatched 
cottages,  old  thunder-stricken  trees,  Oriental  and 
antique  costume,  and  all  such  picturesque  vagaries 
of  an  artist’s  idle  moments.  Turning  them  over, 
with  seeming  carelessness,  a crayon  sketch  of 
two  figures  was  disclosed. 

“ If  I have  failed,”  continued  he, — “ if  your 
heart  does  not  see  itself  reflected  in  your  own 
portrait — if  you  have  no  secret  cause  to  trust 
my  delineation  of  the  other — it  is  not  yet  too 
late  to  alter  them.  I might  change  the  action  of 
these  figures  too.  But  would  it  influence  the 
event?” 

He  directed  her  notice  to  the  sketch.  A thrill 
ran  through  Elinor’s  frame  a shriek  was  upon 
her  lips  ; but  she  stifled  it,  with  the  self-com- 
mand that  becomes  habitual  to  all  who  hide 
thoughts  of  fear  and  anguish  within  their  bosoms. 
Turning  from  the  table,  she  perceived  that  Walter 
had  advanced  near  enough  to  have  seen  the 
sketch,  though  she  could  not  determine  whether 
it  had  caught  his  eye. 

“We  will  not  have  the  pictures  altered,”  said 


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THE  PROPHETIC  PICTURES 


she  hastily.  “If  mine  is  sad,  I shall  but  look 
the  gayer  for  the  contrast.” 

“Be  it  so,”  answered  the  painter,  bowing. 
“ May  your  griefs  be  such  fanciful  ones  that 
5 only  your  picture  may  mourn  for  them  ! For 
your  joys — may  they  be  true  and  deep,  and  paint 
themselves  upon  this  lovely  face,  till  it  quite 
belie  my  art !” 

After  the  marriage  of  Walter  and  Elinor  the 
10  pictures  formed  the  two  most  splendid  orna- 
ments of  their  abode.  They  hung  side  by  side 
separated  by  a narrow  panel,  appearing  to  eye 
each  other  constantly,  yet  always  returning  the 
gaze  of  the  spectator.  Traveled  gentlemen,  who 
15  professed  a knowledge  of  such  subjects,  reckoned 
these  among  the  most  admirable  specimens  of 
modern  portraiture ; while  common  observers 
compared  them  with  the  originals,  feature  by 
feature,  and  were  rapturous  in  praise  of  the  like- 
20  ness.  But,  it  was  on  a third  class, — neither 
traveled  connoisseurs  nor  common  observers,  but 
people  of  natural  sensibility — that  the  pictures 
wrought  their  strongest  effect.  Such  persons 
might  gaze  carelessly  at  first,  but,  becoming 
25  interested,  would  return  day  after  day,  and  study 
these  painted  faces  like  the  pages  of  a mystic 
volume.  Walter  Ludlow’s  portrait  attracted 
their  earliest  notice.  In  the  absence  of  himself 
and  his  bride  they  sometimes  disputed  as  to  the 
30  expression  which  the  painter  had  intended  to 


THE  PROPHETIC  PICTURES 


209 


throw  upon  the  features  ; all  agreeing  that  there 
was  a look  of  earnest  import,  though  no  two 
explained  it  alike.  There  was  less  diversity  of 
opinion  in  regard  to  Elinor’s  picture.  They 
differed,  indeed,  in  their  attempts  to  estimate  5 
the  nature  and  depth  of  the  gloom  that  dwelt 
upon  her  face,  but  agreed  that  it  was  gloom,  and 
alien  from  the  natural  temperament  of  their 
youthful  friend.  A certain  fanciful  person 
announced,  as  the  result  of  much  scrutiny,  that  10 
both  these  pictures  were  parts  of  one  design,  and 
that  the  melancholy  strength  of  feeling  in  Elinor’s 
countenance  bore  reference  to  the  more  vivid 
emotion,  or,  as  he  termed  it,  the  wild  passion,  in 
that  of  Walter.  Though  unskilled  in  the  art,  he  15 
even  began  a sketch,  in  which  the  action  of  the 
two  figures  was  to  correspond  with  their  mutual 
expression. 

It  was  whispered  among  friends,  that,  day  by 
day,  Elinor’s  face  was  assuming  a deeper  shade  20 
of  pensiveness,  which  threatened  soon  to  render 
her  too  true  a counterpart  of  her  melancholy 
picture.  Walter,  on  the  other  hand,  instead  of 
acquiring  the  vivid  look  which  the  painter  had 
given  him  on  the  canvas,  became  reserved  and  25 
downcast,  with  no  outward  flashes  of  emotion, 
however  it  might  be  smoldering  within.  In  course 
of  time  Elinor  hung  a gorgeous  curtain  of  purple 
silk,  wrought  with  flowers,  and  fringed  with 
heavy  golden  tassels,  before  the  pictures,  under  30 


210 


THE  PROPHETIC  PICTURES 


pretense  that  the  dust  would  tarnish  their  hues, 
or  the  light  dim  them.  It  was  enough.  Her 
visitors  felt  that  the  massive  folds  of  the  silk 
must  never  be  withdrawn,  nor  the  portraits 
5 mentioned  in  her  presence. 

Time  wore  on  ; and  the  painter  came  again. 
He  had  been  far  enough  to  the  north  to  see  the 
silver  cascade  of  the  Crystal  Hills,  and  to  look 
over  the  vast  round  of  cloud  and  forest,  from  the 
10  summit  of  New  England’s  loftiest  mountain. 
But  he  did  not  profane  that  scene  by  the  mock- 
ery of  his  art.  He  had  also  lain  in  a canoe  on 
the  bosom  of  Lake  George,  making  his  soul  the 
mirror  of  its  loveliness  and  grandeur,  till  not 
15  a picture  in  the  Vatican  was  more  vivid  than 
his  recollection.  He  had  gone  with  the  Indian 
hunters  to  Niagara,  and  there,  again,  had  flung 
his  hopeless  pencil  down  the  precipice,  feeling 
that  he  could  as  soon  paint  the  roar,  as  aught 
20  else  that  goes  to  make  up  the  wondrous  cataract. 
In  truth,  it  was  seldom  his  impulse  to  copy 
natural  scenery,  except  as  a framework  for  the 
delineations  of  the  human  form  and  face,  instinct 
with  thought,  passion,  or  suffering.  With  store 
25  of  such  his  adventurous  ramble  had  enriched 
him  ; the  stern  dignity  of  Indian  chiefs ; the 
dusky  loveliness  of  Indian  girls  ; the  domestic  life 
of  wigwams  ; the  stealthy  march  ; the  battle 
beneath  gloomy  pine-trees  ; the  frontier  fortress 
30  with  its  garrison ; the  anomaly  of  the  old  French 


THE  PROPHETIC  PICTURES 


211 


partisan,  bred  in  courts,  but  grown  gray  in 
shaggy  deserts ; such  were  the  scenes  and  por- 
traits that  he  had  sketched.  The  glow  of  perilous 
moments  ; flashes  of  wild  feeling ; struggles  of 
tierce  power — love,  hate,  grief,  frenzy— in  a 
word,  all  the  worn-out  heart  of  the  old  earth,  had 
been  revealed  to  him  under  a new  form.  His 
portfolio  was  filled  with  graphic  illustrations  of 
the  volume  of  his  memory,  which  genius  would 
transmute  into  its  own  substance,  and  imbue 
with  immortality.  He  felt  that  the  deep  wisdom 
in  his  art,  which  he  had  sought  so  far,  was  found. 

But,  amid  stern  or  lovely  nature,  in  the  perils 
of  the  forest,  or  its  overwhelming  peacefulness, 
still  there  had  been  two  phantoms,  the  compan- 
ions of  his  way.  Like  all  other  men  around 
whom  an  engrossing  purpose  wreathes  itself, 
he  was  insulated  from  the  mass  of  human  kind. 
He  had  no  aim — no  pleasure — no  sympathies — 
but  what  were  ultimately  connected  with  his  art. 
Though  gentle  in  manner,  and  upright  in  intent 
and  action,  he  did  not  possess  kindly  feelings  ; 
his  heart  was  cold  ; no  living  creature  could  be 
brought  near  enough  to  keep  him  warm.  For 
these  two  being3,  however,  he  had  felt,  in  its 
greatest  intensity,  the  sort  of  interest  which 
always  allied  him  to  the  subjects  of  his  pencil. 
He  had  pried  into  their  souls  with  his  keenest 
insight,  and  pictured  the  result  upon  their  fea- 
tures, with  his  utmost  skill,  so  as  barely  to  fall 


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THE  PROPHETIC  PICTURES 


short  of  that  standard  which  no  genius  ever 
reached,  his  own  severe  conception.  He  had 
caught  from  the  duskiness  of  the  future — at  least, 
so  he  fancied — a fearful  secret,  and  had  ob- 
5scurely  revealed  it  on  the  portraits.  So  much  of 
himself — of  his  imagination  and  all  other  powers 
— had  been  lavished  on  the  study  of  Walter  and 
Elinor,  that  he  almost  regarded  them  as  crea- 
tions of  his  own,  like  the  thousands  with  which 
10  he  had  peopled  the  realms  of  Picture.  There- 
fore did  they  flit  through  the  twilight  of  the 
woods,  hover  on  the  mist  of  waterfalls,  look 
forth  from  the  mirror  of  the  lake,  nor  melt  away 
in  the  noontide  sun.  They  haunted  his  pictorial 
15  fancy,  not  as  mockeries  of  life,  nor  pale  goblins 
of  the  dead,  but  in  the  guise  of  portraits,  each 
with  the  unalterable  expression  which  his  magic 
had  evoked  from  the  caverns  of  the  soul.  He 
could  not  recross  the  Atlantic  till  he  had  again 
20  beheld  the  originals  of  those  airy  pictures. 

“Oh,  glorious  Art!”  thus  mused  the  enthu- 
siastic painter,  as  he  trod  the  street.  “ Thou  art 
the  image  of  the  Creator’s  own.  The  innumer- 
able forms  that  wander  in  nothingness,  start  into 
25  being  at  thy  beck.  The  dead  live  again.  Thou 
recallest  them  to  their  old  scenes,  and  givest 
their  gray  shadows  the  luster  of  a better  life, 
at  once  earthly  and  immortal.  Thou  snatchest 
back  the  fleeting  moments  of  History.  With 
30  thee  there  is  no  Past ; for  at  thy  touch  all  that 


THE  PROPHETIC  PICTURES 


213 


is  great  becomes  forever  present ; and  illus- 
trious men  live  through  long  ages,  in  the  visible 
performance  of  the  very  deeds  which  made 
them  what  they  are.  Oh,  potent  Art ! as  thou 
bringest  the  faintly  revealed  Past  to  stand  in 
that  narrow  strip  of  sunlight  which  we  call 
Now,  canst  thou  summon  the  shrouded  Future 
to  meet  her  there  % Have  I not  achieved  it  ? 
Am  I not  thy  Prophet  % ” 

Thus,  with  a proud,  yet  melancholy  fervor, 
did  he  almost  cry  aloud,  as  he  passed  through 
the  toilsome  street,  among  people  that  knew  not 
of  his  reveries,  nor  could  understand  nor  care 
for  them.  It  is  not  good  for  man  to  cherish 
a solitary  ambition.  Unless  there  be  those 
around  him  by  whose  example  he  may  regulate 
himself,  his  thoughts,  desires,  and  hopes  will 
become  extravagant,  and  he  the  semblance,  per- 
haps the  reality,  of  a madman.  Reading  other 
bosoms,  with  an  acuteness  almost  preternatural, 
the  painter  failed  to  see  the  disorder  of  his  own. 

“And  this  should  be  the  house,”  said  he, 
looking  up  and  down  the  front  before  he 
knocked.  “ Heaven  help  my  brains  ! That  pic- 
ture ! Methinks  it  will  never  vanish.  Whether 
I look  at  the  windows  or  the  door,  there  it  is, 
framed  within  them,  painted  strongly,  and 
glowing  in  the  richest  tints — the  faces  of  the  por- 
traits— the  figures  and  action  of  the  sketch  ! ” 

He  knocked. 


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THE  PROPHETIC  PICTURES 


“ The  Portraits  ! Are  they  within  ? ” inquired 
he  of  the  domestic  ; then  recollecting  himself — 
“Your  master  and  mistress  ? are  they  at  home  ? ” 

“ They  are,  sir,”  said  the  servant,  adding, 
5 as  he  noticed  that  picturesque  aspect  of  which 
the  painter  could  never  divest  himself, — “and 
the  Portraits  too  ! ” 

The  guest  was  admitted  into  a parlor  commu- 
nicating by  a central  door  with  an  interior 
10  room  of  the  same  size.  As  the  first  apart- 
ment was  empty  he  passed  to  the  entrance  of 
the  second,  within  which  his  eyes  were  greeted 
by  those  living  personages,  as  well  as  their  pic- 
tured representatives,  who  had  long  been  the 
15  objects  of  so  singular  an  interest.  He  involun- 
tarily paused  on  the  threshold. 

They  had  not  perceived  his  approach.  Walter 
and  Elinor  were  standing  before  the  portraits, 
whence  the  former  had  just  flung  back  the  rich 
20  and  voluminous  folds  of  the  silken  curtain,  hold- 
ing its  golden  tassel  with  one  hand,  while  the 
other  grasped  that  of  his  bride.  The  pictures, 
concealed  for  months,  gleamed  forth  again  in 
undiminished  splendor,  appearing  to  throw  a 
25  somber  light  across  the  room,  rather  than  to 
be  disclosed  by  a borrowed  radiance.  That  of 
Elinor  had  been  almost  prophetic.  A pensive- 
ness, and  next  a gentle  sorrow,  had  successively 
dwelt  upon  her  countenance,  deepening  with  the 
30  laspe  of  time  into  a quiet  anguish.  A mixture 


THE  PROPHETIC  PICTURES 


215 


of  affright  would  now  have  made  it  the  very 
expression  of  the  portrait.  Walter’s  face  was 
moody  and  dull,  or  animated  only  by  fitful 
flashes  which  left  a heavier  darkness  for  their 
momentary  illumination.  He  looked  from  Eli-  5 
nor  to  her  portrait  and  thence  to  his  own,  in 
the  contemplation  of  which  he  finally  stood 
absorbed. 

The  painter  seemed  to  hear  the  step  of  Destiny 
approaching  behind  him  on  its  progress  towards  10 
its  victims.  A strange  thought  darted  into  his 
mind.  Was  not  his  own  the  form  in  which  that 
Destiny  had  embodied  itself,  and  he  a chief 
agent  of  the  coming  evil  which  he  had  fore- 
shadowed ? 15 

Still  Walter  remained  silent  before  the  picture, 
communing  with  it  as  with  his  own  heart,  and 
abandoning  himself  to  the  spell  of  evil  influence 
that  the  painter  had  cast  upon  the  features. 
Gradually  his  eyes  kindled,  while  as  Elinor  20 
watched  the  increasing  wildness  of  his  face  her 
own  assumed  a look  of  terror  ; and  when,  at 
last,  he  turned  upon  her,  the  resemblance  of 
both  to  their  portraits  was  complete. 

“Our  fate  is  upon  us!”  howled  Walter.  25 
“Die  ! ” 

Drawing  a knife,  he  sustained  her  as  she  was 
sinking  to  the  ground,  and  aimed  it  at  her  bosom. 

In  the  action,  and  in  the  look  and  attitude  of 
each,  the  painter  beheld  the  figures  of  his  sketch.  30 


216 


THE  PROPHETIC  PICTURES 


The  picture,  with  all  its  tremendous  coloring, 
was  finished. 

“ Hold,  madman ! ” cried  he  sternly. 

He  had  advanced  from  the  door,  and  inter- 
5 posed  himself  between  the  wretched  beings  with 
the  same  sense  of  power  to  regulate  their 
destiny  as  to  alter  a scene  upon  the  canvas.  He 
stood  like  a magician  controlling  the  phantoms 
which  he  had  evoked. 

to  “ What ! ” muttered  Walter  Ludlow,  as  he  re- 
lapsed from  fierce  excitement  into  sudden  gloom. 
“Does  fate  impede  its  own  decree  ? ” 

“ Wretched  lady ! ” said  the  painter.  “ Did 
I not  warn  you  ?” 

15  “You  did,”  replied  Elinor  calmly,  as  her 
terror  gave  place  to  the  quiet  grief  which  it  had 
disturbed.  “ But — I loved  him  ! ” 

Is  there  not  a deep  moral  in  the  tale  ? Could  the 
result  of  one  or  of  all  our  deeds  be  shadowed 

20  forth  and  set  before  us — some  would  call  it  Fate 
and  hurry  onward,  others  be  swept  along  by  their 
passionate  desires,  and  none  be  turned  aside  by 
the  Prophetic  Pictures. 


DAVID  SWAN 


A FANTASY 

W e can  be  but  partially  acquainted  even  with 
the  events  which  actually  influence  our  course 
through  life,  and  our  final  destiny.  There  are 
innumerable  other  events,  if  such  they  may  be 
called,  which  come  close  upon  us,  yet  pass  away 
without  actual  results,  or  even  betraying  their 
near  approach  by  the  reflection  of  any  light  or 
shadow  across  our  minds.  Could  we  know  all 
the  vicissitudes  of  our  fortunes,  life  would  be  too 
full  of  hope  and  fear,  exultation  or  disappoint- 
ment, to  afford  us  a single  hour  of  true  serenity. 
This  idea  may  be  illustrated  by  a page  from  the 
secret  history  of  David  Swan. 

We  have  nothing  to  do  with  David  until  we 
find  him,  at  the  age  of  twenty,  on  the  highroad 
from  his  native  place  to  the  city  of  Boston, 
where  his  uncle,  a small  dealer  in  the  grocery 
line,  was  to  take  him  behind  the  counter.  Be  it 
enough  to  say,  that  he  was  a native  of  New 
Hampshire,  born  of  respectable  parents,  and  had 
received  an  ordinary  school  education,  with  a 
classic  finish  by  a year  at  Gilmanton  Academy. 

217 


5 

10 

15 

20 


218 


DAVID  SWAN 


After  journeying  on  foot  from  sunrise  till  nearly 
noon  of  a summer’s  day,  his  weariness  and  the 
increasing  heat  determined  him  to  sit  down  in  the 
first  convenient  shade  and  await  the  coming  up 
5 of  the  stage-coach.  As  if  planted  on  purpose  for 
him,  there  soon  appeared  a little  tuft  of  maples, 
with  a delightful  recess  in  the  midst,  and  such  a 
fresh  bubbling  spring,  that  it  seemed  never  to 
have  sparkled  for  any  wayfarer  but  David  Swan. 
10  Virgin  or  not,  he  kissed  it  with  his  thirsty  lips, 
and  then  flung  himself  along  the  brink,  pillowing 
his  head  upon  some  shirts  and  a pair  of  panta- 
loons, tied  up  in  a striped  cotton  handkerchief. 
The  sunbeams  could  not  reach  him  ; the  dust  did 
15  not  yet  rise  from  the  road,  after  the  heavy  rain  of 
yesterday ; and  his  grassy  lair  suited  the  young 
man  better  than  a bed  of  down.  The  spring 
murmured  drowsily  beside  him ; the  branches 
waved  dreamily  across  the  blue  sky  overhead ; 
20  and  a deep  sleep,  perchance  hiding  dreams 
within  its  depths,  fell  upon  David  Swan.  But 
we  are  to  relate  events  which  he  did  not  dream 
of. 

While  he  lay  sound  asleep  in  the  shade,  other 
25  people  were  wide  awake,  and  passed  to  and  fro, 
afoot,  on  horseback,  and  in  all  sorts  of  vehicles, 
along  the  sunny  road  by  his  bedchamber.  Some 
looked  neither  to  the  right  hand  nor  the  left,  and 
knew  not  that  he  was  there ; some  merely 
30  glanced  that  way,  without  admitting  the 


DAVIT)  SWAN 


219 


slumberer  among  their  busy  thoughts ; some 
laughed  to  see  how  soundly  he  slept ; and 
several,  whose  hearts  were  brimming  full  of 
scorn,  ejected  their  venomous  superfluity  on 
David  Swan.  A middle-aged  widow,  when  5 
nobody  else  was  near,  thrust  her  head  a little 
way  into  the  recess,  and  vowed  that  the  young 
fellow  looked  charming  in  his  sleep.  A temper- 
ance lecturer  saw  him,  and  wrought  poor  David 
into  the  texture  of  his  evening’s  discourse,  as  an  10 
awful  instance  of  dead-drunkenness  by  the  road- 
side. But  censure,  praise,  merriment,  scorn,  and 
indifference  were  all  one,  or  rather  all  nothing, 
to  David  Swan. 

He  had  slept  only  a few  moments  when  a 15 
brown  carriage,  drawn  by  a handsome  pair  of 
horses,  bowled  easily  along,  and  was  brought  to 
a standstill  nearly  in  front  of  David’s  resting- 
place.  A linchpin  had  fallen  out,  and  permitted 
one  of  the  wheels  to  slide  off.  The  damage  was  20 
slight,  and  occasioned  merely  a momentary 
alarm  to  an  elderly  merchant  and  his  wife,  who 
were  returning  to  Boston  in  the  carriage.  While 
the  coachman  and  a servant  were  replacing  the 
wheel,  the  lady  and  gentleman  sheltered  them- 25 
selves  beneath  the  maple-trees,  and  there  espied 
the  bubbling  fountain,  and  David  Swan  asleep 


19  Linchpin.  A pin  used  to  prevent  the  wheel  of  a vehicle  from  slid- 
ing off  the  axletree.  _ 


220 


DAVID  SWAN 


beside  it.  Impressed  with  the  awe  which  the 
humblest  sleeper  usually  sheds  around  him,  the 
merchant  trod  as  lightly  as  the  gout  would 
allow ; and  his  spouse  took  good  heed  not  to 
5 rustle  her  silk  gown,  lest  David  should  start  up, 
all  of  a sudden. 

“ How  soundly  he  sleeps  ! ” whispered  the  old 
gentleman.  “ From  what  a depth  he  draws  that 
easy  breath ! Such  sleep  as  that,  brought  on 
10  without  an  opiate,  would  be  worth  more  to  me 
than  half  my  income,  for  it  would  suppose  health 
and  an  untroubled  mind.” 

“And  youth  besides,”  said  the  lady. 
“Healthy  and  quiet  age  does  not  sleep  thus. 
15  Our  slumber  is  no  more  like  his  than  our 
wakefulness.” 

The  longer  they  looked  the  more  did  this 
elderly  couple  feel  interested  in  the  unknown 
youth,  to  whom  the  wayside  and  the  maple 
20  shade  were  as  a secret  chamber,  with  the  rich 
gloom  of  damask  curtains  brooding  over  him. 
Perceiving  that  a stray  sunbeam  glimmered 
down  upon  his  face,  the  lady  contrived  to  twist 
a branch  aside  so  as  to  intercept  it.  And  hav- 
25ing  done  this  little  act  of  kindness,  she  began  to 
feel  like  a mother  to  him. 

“Providence  seems  to  have  laid  him  here,” 
whispered  she  to  her  husband,  “and  to  have 
brought  us  hither  to  find  him,  after  our  dis- 
30 appointment  in  our  cousin’s  son.  Methinks  I 


DAVID  SWAN 


221 


can  see  a likeness  ta  onr  departed  Henry.  Shall 
we  waken  him? ” 

“To  what  purpose?”  said  the  merchant, 
hesitating.  “We  know  nothing  of  the  youth’s 
character.”  5 

“That  open  countenance!”  replied  his  wife, 
in  the  same  hushed  voice,  yet  earnestly.  “This 
innocent  sleep ! ” 

While  these  whispers  were  passing,  the 
sleeper’s  heart  did  not  throb,  nor  his  breath  10 
become  agitated,  nor  his  features  betray  the 
least  token  of  interest.  Yet  Fortune  was  bend- 
ing over  him,  just  ready  to  let  fall  a burden  of 
gold.  The  old  merchant  had  lost  his  only  son, 
and  had  no  heir  to  his  wealth,  except  a distant  15 
relative,  with  whose  conduct  he  was  dissatisfied. 

In  such  cases  people  sometimes  do  stranger 
things  than  to  act  the  magician,  and  awaken  a 
young  man  to  splendor  who  fell  asleep  in 
poverty.  20 

“Shall  we  not  waken  him?”  repeated  the 
lady  persuasively. 

“The  coach  is  ready,  sir,”  said  the  servant, 
behind. 

The  old  couple  started,  reddened,  and  hurried  25 
away,  mutually  wondering  that  they  should  ever 
have  dreamed  of  doing  anything  so  very  ridicu- 
lous. The  merchant  threw  himself  back  in  the 
carriage,  and  occupied  his  mind  with  the  plan  of 
a magnificent  asylum  for  unfortunate  men  of  30 


222 


DAVID  SWAN 


business.  Meanwhile  David  Swan  enjoyed  liis 
nap. 

The  carriage  could  not  have  gone  above  a mile 
or  two,  when  a pretty  young  girl  came  along 
5 with  a tripping  pace,  which  showed  precisely 
how  her  little  heart  was  dancing  in  her  bosom. 
Perhaps  it  was  this  merry  kind  of  motion  that 
caused — is  there  any  harm  in  saying  it? — her 
garter  to  slip  its  knot.  Conscious  that  the 
10  silken  girth,  if  silk  it  were,  was  relaxing  its 
hold,  she  turned  aside  into  the  shelter  of  the 
maple-trees,  and  there  found  a young  man  asleep 
by  the  spring ! Blushing  as  red  as  any  rose, 
that  she  should  have  intruded  into  a gentleman’s 
15  bedchamber,  and  for  such  a purpose  too,  she  was 
about  to  make  her  escape  on  tiptoe.  But  there 
was  peril  near  the  sleeper.  A monster  of  a bee 
had  been  wandering  overhead — buzz,  buzz,  buzz — 
now  among  the  leaves,  now  flashing  through  the 
20  strips  of  sunshine,  and  now  lost  in  the  dark 
shade,  till  finally  he  appeared  to  be  settling  on 
the  eyelid  of  David  Swan.  The  sting  of  a bee  is 
sometimes  deadly.  As  free-hearted  as  she  was 
innocent,  the  girl  attacked  the  intruder  with  her 
25  handkerchief,  brushed  him  soundly,  and  drove 
him  from  beneath  the  maple  shade.  How  Sweet 
a picture ! This  good  deed  accomplished,  with 
quickened  breath,  and  a deeper  blush,  she  stole 
a glance  at  the  youthful  stranger  for  whom  she 
30  had  been  battling  with  a dragon  in  the  air. 


DAVID  SWAN 


223 


“ He  is  handsome ! ” thought  she,  and  blushed 
redder  yet. 

How  could  it  be  that  no  dream  of  bliss  grew  so 
strong  within  him,  that,  shattered  by  its  very 
strength,  it  should  part -asunder,  and  allow  him 
to  perceive  the  girl  among  its  phantoms  1 Why, 
at  least,  did  no  smile  of  welcome  brighten  upon 
his  face  ? She  was  come,  the  maid  whose  soul, 
according  to  the  old  and  beautiful  idea,  had 
been  severed  from  his  own,  and  whom,  in  all  his 
vague  but  passionate  desires,  he  yearned  to 
meet.  Her  only  could  he  love  with  a perfect 
love — him  only  could  she  receive  into  the  depths 
of  her  heart — and  now  her  image  was  faintly 
blushing  in  the  fountain,  by  his  side  ; should  it 
pass  away,  its  happy  luster  would  never  gleam 
upon  his  life  again. 

“How  sound  he  sleeps!”  murmured  the 
girl. 

She  departed,  but  did  not  trip  along  the  road 
so  lightly  as  when  she  came. 

Now,  this  girl’s  father  was  a thriving  country 
merchant  in  the  neighborhood,  and  happened, 
at  that  identical  time,  to  be  looking  out  for  just 
such  a young  man  as  David  Swan.  Had  David 
formed  a wayside  acquaintance  with  the 
daughter,  he  would  have  become  the  father’s 
clerk,  and  all  else  in  natural  succession.  So 
here,  again,  had  Good  Fortune — the  best  of 
fortunes — stolen  so  near  that  her  garments 


5 

10 

15 

20 

25 

30 


224 


DAVID  SWAN 


brushed  against  him ; and  he  knew  nothing  of 
the  matter. 

The  girl  was  hardly  out  of  sight  when  two  men 
turned  aside  beneath  the  maple  shade.  Both 
5 had  dark  faces,  set  off  by  cloth  caps,  which  were 
drawn  down  aslant  over  their  brows.  Tlieir 
dresses  were  shabby,  yet  had  a certain  smart- 
ness. These  were  a couple  of  rascals,  who  got 
their  living  by  whatever  the  devil  sent  them,  and 
10  now,  in  the  interim  of  other  business,  had  staked 
the  joint  profits  of  their  next  piece  of  villainy 
on  a game  of  cards,  which  was  to  have  been 
decided  here  under  the  trees.  But  finding 
David  asleep  by  the  spring,  one  of  the  rogues 
15  whispered  to  his  fellow  : 

“Hist!  Do  you  see  that  bundle  under  his 
head  ? ” 

The  other  villain  nodded,  winked,  and  leered. 

“I’ll  bet  you  a horn  of  brandy,”  said  the 
20  first,  “ that  the  chap  has  either  a pocketbook  or 
a snug  little  hoard  of  small  change  stowed  away 
amongst  his  shirts.  And  if  not  there,  we  shall 
find  it  in  his  pantaloons  pocket.” 

“ But  how  if  he  wakes  ? ” said  the  other. 

25  His  companion  thrust  aside  his  waistcoat, 
pointed  to  the  handle  of  a dirk,  and  nodded. 

“ So  be  it ! ” muttered  the  second  villain. 

They  approached  the  unconscious  David,  and, 
while  one  pointed  the  dagger  towards  his  heart, 
80  the  other  began  to  search  the  bundle  beneath 


DAVID  SWAN 


225 


his  head.  Their  two  faces,  grim,  wrinkled,  and 
ghastly  with  guilt  and  fear,  bent  over  their 
victim,  looking  horribly  enough  to  be  mistaken 
for  fiends,  should  he  suddenly  awake.  Nay, 
had  the  villains  glanced  aside  into  the  spring,  5 
even  they  would  hardly  have  known  themselves, 
as  reflected  there.  But  David  Swan  had  never 
worn  a more  tranquil  aspect,  even  when  asleep 
on  his  mother’s  breast. 

“I  must  take  away  the  bundle,”  whispered  10 
one. 

“ If  he  stirs,  I’ll  strike,”  muttered  the  other. 

But,  at  this  moment,  a dog,  scenting  along 
the  ground,  came  in  beneath  the  maple  trees, 
and  gazed  alternately  at  each  of  these  wicked  15 
men,  and  then  at  the  quiet  sleeper.  He  then 
lapped  out  of  the  fountain. 

“Pshaw!”  said  one  villain.  “We  can  do 
nothing  now.  The  dog’s  master  must  be  close 
behind.”  20 

“Let’s  take  a drink  and  be  off,”  said  the 
other. 

The  man  with  the  dagger  thrust  back  the 
weapon  into  his  bosom  and  drew  forth  a pocket- 
pistol,  but  not  of  that  kind  which  kills  by  a 25 
single  discharge.  It  was  a flask  of  liquor  with 
a block-tin  tumbler  screwed  upon  the  mouth. 
Each  drank  a comfortable  dram,  and  left  the 
spot  with  so  many  jests  and  such  laughter  at 
their  unaccomplished  wickedness  that  they  30 


226 


DAVID  SWAN 


might  be  said  to  have  gone  on  their  way  re- 
joicing. 

In  a few  hours  they  had  forgotten  the  whole 
affair,  nor  once  imagined  that  the  recording 
5 angel  had  written  down  the  crime  of  murder 
against  their  souls,  in  letters  as  durable  as 
eternity.  As  for  David  Swan,  he  still  slept 
quietly,  neither  conscious  of  the  shadow  of 
death  when  it  hung  over  him,  nor  of  the  glow  of 
10  renewed  life  when  that  shadow  was  withdrawn. 

He  slept,  but  no  longer  so  quietly  as  at  first. 
An  hour’s  repose  had  snatched  from  his  elastic 
frame  the  weariness  with  which  many  hours  of 
toil  had  burdened  it.  Now  he  stirred — now 
15  moved  his  lips,  without  a sound — now  talked  in 
an  inward  tone  to  the  noonday  specters  of  his 
dream.  But  a noise  of  wheels  came  rattling 
louder  and  louder  along  the  road,  until  it  dashed 
through  the  dispersing  mist  of  David’s  slumber 
20 — and  there  was  the  stage-coach.  He  started 
up,  with  all  his  ideas  about  him. 

“ Halloo,  driver  ! — take  a passenger  ? ” shouted 
he. 

“ Room  on  top  ! ” answered  the  driver. 

25  Up  mounted  David,  and  bowled  away  merrily 
towards  Boston,  without  so  much  as  a parting 
glance  at  that  fountain  of  dreamlike  vicissitude. 
He  knew  not  that  a phantom  of  Wealth  had 
thrown  a golden  hue  upon  its  waters — nor  that 
80  one  of  Love  had  sighed  softly  to  their  murmur 


DAVID  SWAN 


227 


— nor  that  one  of  Death  had  threatened  to  crim- 
son them  with  his  blood — all  in  the  brief  hour 
since  he  lay  down  to  sleep.  Sleeping  or  waking, 
we  hear  not  the  airy  footsteps  of  the  strange 
things  that  almost  happen.  Does  it  not  argue  a 5 
superintending  Providence,  that,  while  viewless 
and  unexpected  events  thrust  themselves  con- 
tinually athwart  our  path,  there  should  still  be 
regularity  enough,  in  mortal  life  to  render  fore- 
sight even  partially  available  % 10 


SIGHTS  PROM  A STEEPLE 

So ! I have  climbed  high,  and  my  reward  is 
small.  Here  I stand,  with  wearied  knees,  earth, 
indeed,  at  a dizzy  depth  below,  but  heaven  far, 
far  beyond  me  still.  Oh  that  I could  soar  up 
5 into  the  very  zenith,  where  man  never  breathed, 
nor  eagle  ever  flew,  and  where  the  ethereal  azure 
melts  away  from  the  eye,  and  appears  only  a 
deepened  shade  of  nothingness ! And  yet  I 
shiver  at  that  cold  and  solitary  thought.  What 
10  clouds  are  gathering  in  the  golden  west,  with 
direful  intent  against  the  brightness  and  the 
warmth  of  this  summer  afternoon  ! They  are 
ponderous  air-ships,  black  as  death,  and  freighted 
with  the  tempest ; and  at  intervals  their  thun- 
15  der,  the  signal  guns  of  that  unearthly  squadron, 
rolls  distant  along  the  deep  of  heaven.  These 
nearer  heaps  of  fleecy  vapor — methinks  I could 
roll  and  toss  upon  them  the  whole  day  long ! — 
seem  scattered  here  and  there,  for  the  repose  of 
20  tired  pilgrims  through  the  sky.  Perhaps — for 
who  can  tell? — beautiful  spirits  are  disporting 
themselves  there,  and  will  bless  my  mortal  eye 
with  the  brief  appearance  of  their  curly  locks  of 
golden  light  and  laughing  faces,  fair  and  faint 

228 


SIGHTS  FROM  A STEEPLE 


229 


as  the  people  of  a rosy  dream.  Or  where  the 
floating  mass  so  imperfectly  obstructs  the  color 
of  the  firmament,  a slender  foot  and  fairy  limb, 
resting  too  heavily  upon  the  frail  support,  may 
be  thrust  through  and  suddenly  withdrawn,  5 
while  longing  fancy  follows  them  in  vain. 
Yonder  again  is  an  airy  archipelago,  where  the 
sunbeams  love  to  linger  in  their  journeyings 
through  space.  Every  one  of  those  little  clouds 
has  been  dipped  and  steeped  in  radiance,  which  10 
the  slightest  pressure  might  disengage  in  silvery 
profusion,  like  water  wrung  from  a sea-maid’s 
hair.  Bright  they  are  as  a young  man’s  visions, 
and  like  them  would  be  realized  in  chillness, 
obscurity,  and  tears.  I will  look  on  them  no  15 
more. 

In  three  parts  of  the  visible  circle,  whose  cen 
ter  is  this  spire,  I discern  cultivated  fields, 
villages,  white  country-seats,  the  waving  lines  of 
rivulets,  little  placid  lakes,  and  here  and  there  20 
a rising  ground  that  would  fain  be  termed  a hill. 
On  the  fourth  side  is  the  sea,  stretching  away 
towards  a viewless  boundary,  blue  and  calm, 
except  where  the  passing  anger  of  a shadow  flits 
across  its  surface  and  is  gone.  Hitherward,  a 25 
broad  inlet  penetrates  far  into  the  land  ; on  the 
verge  of  the  harbor,  formed  by  its  extremity,  is 
a town  : and  over  it  am  I,  a watchman,  all-heed- 
ing and  unheeded.  Oh  that  the  multitude  of 
chimneys  could  speak,  like  those  of  Madrid,  and  30 


230 


SIGHTS  FROM  A STEEPLE 


betray  in  smoky  whispers  the  secrets  of  all  who, 
since  their  first  foundation,  have  assembled  at 
the  hearths  within ! Oh  that  the  Limping 
Devil  of  Le  Sage  would  perch  beside  me  here, 
5 extend  his  wand^over  this  contiguity  of  roofs, 
uncover  every  chamber,  and  make  me  familiar 
with  their  inhabitants ! The  most  desirable 
mode  of  existence  might  be  that  of  a spiritual- 
ized Paul  Pry,  hovering  invisible  round  man  and 
10  woman,  witnessing  their  deeds,  searching  into 
their  hearts,  borrowing  brightness  from  their 
felicity  and  shade  from  their  sorrow,  and  re- 
taining no  emotion  peculiar  to  himself.  But 
none  of  these  things  are  possible  ! and  if  I would 
15 know  the  interior  of  brick  walls,  or  the  mystery 
of  human  bosoms,  I can  but  guess. 

Yonder  is  a fair  street,  extending  north  and 
south.  The  stately  mansions  are  placed  each  on 
its  carpet  of  verdant  grass,  and  a long  flight  of 
20  steps  descends  from  every  door  to  the  pavement. 
Ornamental  trees,  the  broad-leafed  horse-chest- 
nut, the  elm  so  lofty  and  bending,  the  graceful 
but  infrequent  willow,  and  others  whereof  I 
know  not  the  names,  grow  thrivingly  among 
25  brick  and  stone.  The  oblique  rays  of  the  sun 


4 Limping  Devil  of  Le  Sage.  “ Le  Diable  Boiteux,”  or  Lame  Devil, 
is  the  title  of  a play  by  the  French  author  Le  Sage  (1668-1747).  The 
context  explains  the  reference. 

9 Paul  Pry.  A person  entirely  engrossed  in  the  study  of  other  peo- 
ple’s affairs.  Chief  character  in  a book  by  John  Poole. 


SIGHTS  FROM  A STEEPLE 


231 


are  intercepted  by  these  green  citizens,  and  by 
the  houses,  so  that  one  side  of  the  street  is  a 
shaded  and  pleasant  walk.  On  its  whole  ex- 
tent there  is  now  but  a single  passenger,  ad- 
vancing from  the  upper  end  ; and  he,  unless 
distance  and  the  medium  of  a pocket-spyglass 
do  him  more  than  justice,  is  a fine  young  man  of 
twenty.  He  saunters  slowly  forward,  slapping 
his  left  hand  with  his  folded  gloves,  bending  his 
eyes  upon  the  pavement,  and  sometimes  raising 
them  to  throw  a glance  before  him.  Certainly, 
he  has  a pensive  air.  Is  he  in  doubt,  or  in  debt  ? 
Is  he,  if  the  question  be  allowable,  in  love  ? 
Does  he  strive  to  be  melancholy  and  gentleman- 
like? Or,  is  he  merely  overcome  by  the  heat? 
But  I bid  him  farewell,  for  the  present.  The 
door  of  one  of  the  houses,  an  aristocratic  edifice, 
with  curtains  of  purple  and  gold  waving  from 
the  windows,  is  now  opened,  and  down  the  steps 
come  two  ladies,  swinging  their  parasols,  and 
lightly  arrayed  for  a summer  ramble.  Both  are 
young ; both  are  pretty  ; but  methinks  the  left- 
hand  lass  is  the  fairer  of  the  twain  ; and  though 
she  be  so  serious  at  this  moment,  I could  swear 
that  there  is  a treasure  of  gentle  fun  within  her. 
They  stand  talking  a little  while  upon  the  steps, 
and  finally  proceed  up  the  street.  Meantime,  as 
their  faces  are  now  turned  from  me,  I may  look 
elsewhere. 

Upon  that  wharf,  and  down  the  corresponding 


5 

10 

15 

20 

25 

30 


232 


SIGHTS  FROM  A STEEPLE 


street,  is  a busy  contrast  to  the  quiet  scene 
which  I have  just  noticed.  Business,  evidently 
has  its  center  there,  and  many  a man  is  wasting 
the  summer  afternoon  in  labor  and  anxiety,  in 
5 losing  riches,  or  in  gaining  them,  when  he  would 
be  wiser  to  flee  away  to  some  pleasant  country 
village,  or  shaded  lake  in  the  forest,  or  wild  and 
cool  sea-beach.  I see  vessels  unlading  at  the 
wharf,  and  precious  merchandise  strown  upon  the 
10  ground,  abundantly  as  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea, 
that  market  whence  no  goods  return,  and  where 
there  is  no  captain  nor  supercargo  to  render  an 
account  of  sales.  Here,  the  clerks  are  diligent 
with  their  paper  and  pencils,  and  sailors  ply  the 
15  block  and  tackle  that  hang  over  the  hold, 
accompanying  their  toil  with  cries,  long-drawn 
and  roughly  melodious,  till  the  bales  and 
puncheons  ascend  to  upper  air.  At  a little  dis- 
tance a group  of  gentlemen  are  assembled 
so  round  the  door  of  a warehouse.  Grave  seniors 
be  they,  and  I would  wager — if  it  were  safe,  in 
these  times,  to  be  responsible  for  anyone — that 
the  least  eminent  among  them  might  vie  rwith 
old  Vincentio,  that  incomparable  trafficker  of 
25  Pisa.  I can  even  select  the  wealthiest  of  the 


II 2  Supercargo.  The  officer  having  the  business  management  of  the 
ship’s  merchandise. 

18  Puncheon.  A cask. 

24  vincentio.  An  old  gentleman  of  Pisa,  in  Shakspere’s  comedy  of 
<<  The  Taming  of  the  Shrew.” 


SIGHTS  FROM  A STEEPLE 


233 


company.  It  is  the  elderly  personage,  in  some- 
what rusty  black,  with  powdered  hair,  the  super- 
fluous whiteness  of  which  is  visible  upon  the 
cape  of  his  coat.  His  twenty  ships  are  wafted 
on  some  of  their  many  courses  by  every  breeze  5 
that  blows,  and  his  name — I will  venture  to  say, 
though  I know  it  not — is  a familiar  sound  among 
the  far-separated  merchants  of  Europe  and  the 
Indies. 

But  I bestow  too  much  of  my  attention  in  this  10 
quarter.  On  looking  again  to  the  long  and 
shady  walk,  I perceive  that  the  two  fair  girls 
have  encountered  the  young  man.  After  a sort 
of  shyness  in  the  recognition  he  turns  back  with 
them.  Moreover,  he  has  sanctioned  my  taste  15 
in  regard  to  his  companions  by  placing  himself 
on  the  inner  side  of  the  pavement,  nearest  the 
Venus  to  whom  I — enacting,  on  a steeple-top, 
the  part  of  Paris  on  the  top. of  Ida — adjudged 
the  golden  apple.  20 

In  two  streets,  converging  at  right  angles 
towards  my  watclitower,  I distinguish  three 
different  processions.  One  is  a proud  array  of 
voluntary  soldiers  in  bright  uniform,  resem- 
bling, from  the  height  whence  I look  down,  the  25 


19  Paris  on  the  top  of  Ida.  Paris,  in  Homer’s  Iliad,  was  son  of 
Priam,  King  of  Troy.  He  grew  up  as  a shepherd  boy  on  Mt.  Ida, 
where  the  three  goddesses,  Juno,  Yenus,  and  Minerva,  appeared 
before  him  with  a golden  apple  inscribed  “To  the  fairest,”  and  left 
the  award  to  his  decision.  He  gave  the  apple  to  Yenus. 


234 


SIGHTS  FBOM  A STEEPLE 


painted  veterans  that  garrison  the  windows  of 
a toyshop.  And  yet  it  stirs  my  heart ; their 
regular  advance,  their  nodding  plumes,  the  sun- 
flasli  on  their  bayonets  and  musket-barrels,  the 
5 roll  of  their  drums  ascending  past  me,  and  the 
fife  ever  and  anon  piercing  through — these 
things  have  wakened  a warlike  fire,  peaceful 
though  I be.  Close  to  their  rear  marches  a 
battalion  of  schoolboys,  ranged  in  crooked  and 
10  irregular  platoons,  shouldering  sticks,  thump- 
ing a harsh  and  unripe  clatter  from  an  instru- 
ment of  tin,  and  ridiculously  aping  the  intricate 
maneuvers  of  the  foremost  band.  Nevertheless, 
as  slight  differences  are  scarcely  perceptible 
15  from  a church  spire,  one  might  be  tempted  to 
ask,  “Which  are  the  boys?”  or  rather,  “Which 
the  men?”  But,  leaving  these,  let  us  turn 
to  the  third  procession,  which,  though  sadder  in 
outward  show,  may  excite  identical  reflections 
20  in  the  thoughtful  mind. 

It  is  a funeral.  A hearse  drawn  by  a black  and 
bony  steed,  and  covered  by  a dusty  pall ; two  or 
three  coaches  rumbling  over  the  stones,  their 
drivers  half  asleep ; a dozen  couple  of  careless 
25 mourners  in  their  everyday  attire;  such  was 
not  the  fashion  of  our  fathers,  when  they  carried 
a friend  to  his  grave.  There  is  now  no  doleful 
clang  of  the  bell  to  proclaim  sorrow  to  the  town. 
Was  the  King  of  Terrors  more  awful  in  those 
so  days  than  in  our  own,  that  wisdom  and  philos- 


SIGHTS  FROM  A STEEPLE 


235 


ophy  have  been  able  to  produce  this  change  ? 
Not  so.  Here  is  a proof  that  he  retains  his 
proper  majesty.  The  military  men  and  the 
military  boys  are  wheeling  round  the  corner, 
and  meet  the  funeral  full  in  the  face.  Immedi- 
ately the  drum  is  silent,  all  but  the  tap  that 
regulates  each  simultaneous  footfall.  The 
soldiers  yield  the  path  to  the  dusty  hearse  and 
unpretending  train,  and  the  children  quit  their 
ranks,  and  cluster  on  the  sidewalks,  with  timor- 
ous and  instinctive  curiosity.  The  mourners 
enter  the  churchyard  at  the  base  of  the  steeple, 
and  pause  by  an  open  grave  among  the  burial- 
stones  ; the  lightning  glimmers  on  them  as  they 
lower  down  the  coffin,  and  the  thunder  rattles 
heavily  while  they  throw  the  earth  upon  its  lid. 
Yerily  the  shower  is  near,  and  I tremble  for  the 
young  man  and  the  girls,  who  have  now  dis- 
appeared from  the  long  and  shady  street. 

How  various  are  the  situations  of  the  people 
covered  by  the  roofs  beneath  me,  and  how 
diversified  are  the  events  at  this  moment  befall- 
ing them  ! The  newborn,  the  aged,  the  dying, 
the  strong  in  life,  and  the  recent  dead,  are  in 
the  chambers  of  these  many  mansions.  The 
full  of  hope,  the  happy,  the  miserable,  and  the 
desperate,  dwell  together  within  the  circle  of 
my  glance.  In  some  of  the  houses  over  which 
my  eyes  roam  so  coldly,  guilt  is  entering  into 
hearts  that  are  still  tenanted  by  a debased  and 


5 

10 

15 

20 

25 

30 


236 


SIGHTS  FROM  A STEEPLE 


trodden  virtue — guilt  is  on  the  very  edge  of  com- 
mission, and  the  impending  deed  might  be 
averted  ; guilt  is  done,  and  the  criminal  wonders 
if  it  be  irrevocable.  There  are  broad  thoughts 
5 struggling  in  my  mind,  and,  were  I able  to  give 
them  distinctness,  they  would  make  their  way 
in  eloquence.  Lo  ! the  raindrops  are  descending. 

The  clouds,  within  a little  time,  have  gathered 
over  all  the  sky,  hanging  heavily,  as  if  about  to 
10  drop  in  one  unbroken  mass  upon  the  earth.  At 
intervals  the  lightning  flashes  from  their  brood- 
ing hearts,  quivers,  disappears,  and  then  comes 
the  thunder,  traveling  slowly  after  its  twin- 
born  flame.  A strong  wind  has  sprung  up, 
15  howls  through  the  darkened  streets,  and  raises 
the  dust  in  dense  bodies  to  rebel  against  the 
approaching  storm.  The  disbanded  soldiers  fly, 
the  funeral  has  already  vanished  like  its  dead, 
and  all  people  hurry  homeward — all  that  have  a 
20  home;  while  a few  lounge  by  the  corners,  or  trudge 
on  desperately,  at  their  leisure.  In  a narrow 
lane,  which  communicates  with  the  shady  street, 
I discern  the  rich  old  merchant,  putting  himself 
to  the  top  of  his  speed,  lest  the  rain  should  con- 
25  vert  his  hair-powder  to  a paste.  Unhappy 
gentleman ! By  the  slow  vehemence,  and  pain- 
ful moderation  wherewith  he  journeys,  it  is  but 
too  evident  that  podagra  has  left  its  thrilling 
tenderness  in  his  great  toe.  But  yonder,  at  a 


28  Podagra.  The  gout* 


SIGHTS  FROM  A STEEPLE 


237 


far  more  rapid  pace,  come  three  other  of  my 
acquaintance — the  two  pretty  girls  and  the 
young  man — unseasonably  interrupted  in  their 
walk.  Their  footsteps  are  supported  by  the 
risen  dust,  the  wind  lends  them  its  velocity,  5 
they  fly  like  three  seabirds  driven  landward  by 
the  tempestuous  breeze.  The  ladies  would  not 
thus  rival  Atalanta,  if  they  but  knew  that  any- 
one were  at  leisure  to  observe  them.  Ah ! as 
they  hasten  onward,  laughing  in  the  angry  faoe  10 
of  nature,  a sudden  catastrope  has  chanced.  At 
the  corner  where  the  narrow  lane  enters  into  the 
street,  they  come  plump  against  the  old  mer- 
chant, whose  tortoise  motion  has  just  brought 
him  to  that  point.  He  likes  not  the  sweet  15 
encounter ; the  darkness  of  the  whole  air 
gathers  speedily  upon  his  visage,  and  there  is 
a pause  on  both  sides.  Finally,  he  thrusts  aside 
the  youth  with  little  courtesy,  seizes  an  arm  of 
each  of  the  two  girls,  and  plods  onwards,  like  20 
a magician  with  a prize  of  captive  fairies.  All 
this  is  easy  to  be  understood.  How  discon- 
solate the  poor  lover  stands ! regardless  of  the 
rain  that  threatens  an  exceeding  damage  to  his 
well-fashioned  habiliments,  till  he  catches  a 25 
backward  glance  of  mirth  from  a bright  eye,  and 
turns  away  with  whatever  comfort  it  conveys. 

The  old  man  and  his  daughters  are  safely 
housed,  and  now  the  storm  lets  loose  its  fury. 

In  every  dwelling  I perceive  the  faces  of  the  30 


238  SIGHTS  FROM  A STEEPLE 

chambermaids  as  they  shut  down  the  windows, 
excluding  the  impetuous  shower,  and  shrinking 
away  from  the  quick  fiery  glare.  The  large 
drops  descend  with  force  upon  the  slated  roofs, 
5 and  rise  again  in  smoke.  There  is  a rush  and 
roar,  as  of  a river  through  the  air,  and  muddy 
streams  bubble  majestically  along  the  pavement, 
whirl  their  dusky  foam  into  the  kennel,  and 
disappear  beneath  iron-grates.  Thus  did  Are- 
lothusa  sink.  I love  not  my  station  here  aloft, 
in  the  midst  of  the  tumult  which  I am  power- 
less to  direct  or  quell,  with  the  blue  lightning 
wrinkling  on  my  brow,  and  the  thunder  mutter- 
ing its  first  awful  syllables  in  my  ear.  I will  de- 
ls scend.  Yet  let  me  give  another  glance  to  the  sea, 
where  the  foam  breaks  out  in  long  white  lines 
upon  a broad  expanse  of  blackness,  or  boils  up 
in  far-distant  points,  like  snowy  mountain-tops 
in  the  eddies  of  a flood  ; and  let  me  look  once 
20  more  at  the  green  plain,  and  little  hills  of  the 
country,  over  which  the  giant  of  the  storm  is 
striding  in  robes  of  mist,  and  at  the  town,  whose 
obscured  and  desolate  streets  might  beseem  a city 
of  the  dead  ; and  turning  a single  moment  to  the 
25 sky,  now  gloomy  as  an  author’s  prospects,  I pre- 
pare to  resume  my  station  on  lower  earth.  But 
stay ! A little  speck  of  azure  has  widened  in  the 


9 Arethusa.  Nymph  of  a fountain  in  Greece  who,  when  pursued  by 
the  river  Alpheus,  fled  under  the  sea  to  Sicily.  Greek  mythology. 


SIGHTS  FROM  A STEEPLE 


239 


western  heavens ; the  sunbeams  find  a passage, 
and  go  rejoicing  through  the  tempest ; and  on 
yonder  darkest  cloud,  borne  like  hallowed 
hopes  of  the  glory  of  another  world  and  the 
trouble  and  tears  of  this,  brightens  forth  the 
Rainbow ! 


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228-229,  233-234-235 


Goldsmith's  She  Stoops  to  Conquer  Chaucer's  The  Knightes  Tale 
Chaucer’s  The  Prologue  to  the  Canter-  Milton’s  Paradise  Lost,  Book  L 
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6.  The  discriminating  use  of  diacritical  marks; 

7.  The  lessons  for  nature  study; 

8.  The  language  exercises  closely  correlated  with  the  subjects  of  the  lesson; 

9.  The  literary,  historical,  and  biographical  notes; 

10.  The  exclusion  of  all  selections  which  might  justify  the  criticism  of  being 
sectional,  sectarian,  or  partisan; 

11.  The  fine  literary  flavor  which  characterizes  every  book  in  the  series; 

12.  The  excellence  of  the  engravings  and  color  work;  and 

13.  The  general  mechanical  execution. 


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SHAKESPEARE’S  PLAYS 


KELLOGG’S  EDITIONS 

EACH  PLAY  IN  ONE  VOLUME 
Text  Carefully  Expurgated  for  Use  in  Mixed  Classes 
With  Explanatory  Notes,  Examination  Papers,  and  Plan  of  Study  (Selected) 


By  BRAINERD  KELLOGG,  LL.D. 


Dean  of  the  Faculty  and  Professor  of  the  English  Language  and  Literature 
in  the  Brooklyn  Polytechnic  Institute , and  author  of  a “ Text-Book  on  Rhet 
oric"  a “ Text-Book  on  English  Literature  f and  one  of  the  authors  of  Reed 
Kellogg's  “ Lessons  in  English .” 

The  notes  of  English  Editors  have  been  freely  used;  but  they  have  been 
porously  pruned,  or  generously  added  to,  wherever  it  was  thought  they  might 
better  meet  the  needs  of  American  School  and  College  Students. 

We  are  confident  that  teachers  who  examine  these  editions  will  pronounce 
them  better  adapted  to  the  wants  of  the  class-room  than  any  other  edition® 
published. 

Printed  from  large  type  and  attractively  bound  in  cloth. 

Besides  the  desirable  text-book  features  already  described,  each  volume  con- 
tains a portrait  of  Shakeapeare,  his  birthplace,  editorial  and  general  notices, 
introduction  to  Shakespeare’s  grammar,  a plan  of  study  for  perfect  possession 
of  the  play,  introduction  to  the  play,  and  critical  opinions. 

The  following  volumes  are  now  ready: 


Merchant  of  Venice 
Macbeth 
Hamlet 
King  Lear 
King  Henry  VIII 
King  Richard  III 
The  Winter’s  Tale 
Twelfth  Night 
King  John 

Much  Ado  About  Nothing 


Julius  Caesar 

Tempest 

King  Henry  V 

King  Henry  IV,  Part  I 

As  You  Like  It 

A Midsummer-Night’s  Dream 

Othello 

Coriolanus 

Romeo  and  Juliet 


Mailing  price,  30  cents  a volume 


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ABERNETHY’S 
AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

By  J.  W.  ABERNETHY,  Ph.D. 

Principal  of  Berkeley  Institute,  Brooklyn , AT,  V. 

510  pages,  i2mo,  cloth.  Price.  $1.10 

The  author’s  long  and  conspicuously  successful  experience 
as  a teacher,  and  the  time  and  thought  he  has  devoted  to  the 
work  encourage  us  to  believe  that  this  book  will  be  particularly 
adapted  to  the  varying  needs  of  his  fellow-teachers. 

The  plan  of  the  book  includes  a brief  account  of  the  growth  of 
our  literature  considered  as  part  of  our  national  history,  with 
such  biographical  and  critical  material  as  will  best  make  the 
first-hand  study  of  American  authors  interesting  and  profitable. 

One  of  the  most  interesting  features  of  the  book  is  the  supple- 
menting of  the  author’s  critical  estimates  of  the  value  of  the 
work  of  the  more  important  American  writers  with  opinions 
quoted  from  contemporary  sources.  Other  strong  points  are  the 
attention  given  to  more  recent  contributions  to  American  litera- 
ture, and  the  fact  that  Southern  literature  is  accorded  a con- 
sideration commensurate  with  its  interest  and  value. 

The  pedagogical  merit  of  the  book  is  indicated  by  the  care 
which  has  been  given  to  the  production  of  a teaching  apparatus 
which  is  at  once  simple  and  entirely  adequate.  At  the  end  of 
each  chapter,  two  lists  of  selections  are  provided  for  each  im- 
portant author,  one  for  critical  study,  the  other  for  outside 
reading.  Lists  of  reading  material  for  the  historical  background 
also  are  given.  Study  along  the  lines  indicated  will  lead  to  a 
closer  correlation  of  history  and  literature  than  is  usually  se- 
cured, and  to  a more  just  appreciation  of  the  literature. 

The  books  included  in  the  list  at  the  end  of  the  work  consti- 
tute an  ample  and  fairly  complete  library  of  biography  and 
criticism  for  students  of  American  literature. 

From  G.  Herbert  Clarke,  Professor  of  the  English  Language 
and  Literature,  Mercer  University,  Macon,  Georgia: 

“Probably  my  good  will  towards  the  book  is  best  shown  by 
the  fact  that  I have  adopted  and  am  now  using  it  in  a class  of 
fifty-five  sophomores.  The  author  knows  his  facts,  relates 
them  simply,  and  shows  a not  inconsiderable  appreciation  of 
literary  forms  and  resources.  In  addition  I find  his  character 
analyses  judicial  and  catholic  and  couched  in  even  diction 
rather  than,  as  is  so  often  the  case  in  texts  of  this  kind,  in 
canting  rhetoric.” 

MAYNARD,  MERRILL,  & CO.,  Publishers 


KELLOGG’S 

TEXT-BOOK  ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 


With  copious  extracts  from  the  leading  authors,  English  and  American,  and  full 
instructions  as  to  the  method  in  which  these  are  to  be  studied.  Adapted  for 
use  in  Colleges,  High  Schools,  Academies,  etc.  By  Brainerd  Kellogg,  LL.D., 
Dean  of  the  Faculty  and  Professor  of  the  English  Language  and  Literature 
in  the  Brooklyn  Polytechnic  Institute,  Author  of  a “Text-Book  on  Rhetoric," 
and  one  of  the  authors  of  Reed  and  Kellogg’s  “Graded  Lessons  in  English," 
“Higher  Lessons  in  English,"  and  “High  School  Grammar." 

THE  BOOK  IS  DIVIDED  INTO  THE  FOLLOWING  PERIODS: 

Period  I. — Before  the  Norman  Conquest,  670-1066.  Period  II. — From  the 
Conquest  to  Chaucer’s  death,  1066-1400.  Period  III.— From  Chaucer’s  death 
to  Elizabeth,  1400-1558.  Period  IV. — Elizabeth’s  reign,  1558-1603.  Period 
V. — From  Elizabeth’s  death  to  the  Restoration,  1603-1660.  Period  VI. — - 
From  the  Restoration  to  Swift’s  death,  1660-1745.  Period  VII. — From  Swift’s 
Death  to  the  French  Revolution,  1745-1789.  Period  VIII. — From  the  French 
Revolution,  1789,  onwards. 

Each  Period  is  preceded  by  a lesson  containing  a brief  resume  of  the  great 
historical  events  that  have  had  somewhat  to  do  in  shaping  or  in  coloring  the 
literature  of  that  period. 

Extracts,  as  many  and  as  ample  as  the  limits  of  a text-book  would  allow,  have 
been  made  from  the  principal  writers  of  each  Period.  Such  are  selected  as; 
contain  the  characteristic  traits  of  their  authors,  both  in  thought  and  expression, 
and  but  few  of  these  extracts  have  ever  seen  the  light  in  books  of  selections — 
none  of  them  have  been  worn  threadbare  by  use,  or  have  lost  their  freshness  by 
the  pupil’s  familiarity  with  them  in  the  school  readers. 

It  teaches  the  pupil  how  the  selections  are  to  be  studied,  soliciting  and  exact- 
ing his  judgment  at  every  step  of  the  way  which  leads  from  the  author’s  diction 
up  through  his  style  and  thought  to  the  author  himself;  and  in  many  other  ways 
it  places  the  pupil  on  the  best  possible  footing  with  the  authors  whose  acquaint- 
ance it  is  his  business,  as  well  as  his  pleasure,  to  make. 

Short  estimates  of  the  leading  authors,  made  by  the  best  English  and  Ameri- 
can critics,  have  been  inserted. 

The  author  has  endeavored  to  make  a practical,  common-sense  text-book— 
one  that  would  so  educate  the  student  that  he  would  know  and  enjoy  good 
literature. 

l2mo,  cloth,  485  pp.  Price,  $1.25 

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The  best  literature  at  lowest  prices 

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noted  English  and  American  authors,  as  well  as  translations 
from  ancient  classics. 

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This  rate  will  also  be  allowed  to  schools  on  less  than  a dozen. 

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Milton — Paradise  Lost,  Book  I $3.00 

Milton — paradise  Lost,  Books  I.  and  II 4.20 

Chaucer — The  Canterbury  Tales.  The  Prologue 3.60 

Chaucer — The  Squieres  Tale 3.60 

Chaucer— The  Knightes  Tale 4.20 

Cooper — The  Last  of  the  Mohicans 4.20 

Goldsmith — She  Stoops  to  Conquer 3.0c 

Howland— Homer’s  Iliad,  Books  I.  and  VI 3.00 

Howland — Homer’s  Odyssey,  Books  I.,  V.,  IX.,  and  X 3.00 

Howland — Horace’s  The  Art  of  Poetry 3.00 

Burt — The  Story  of  the  German  Iliad 5.00 

Shakespeare’s  Plays,  Kellogg’s  Editions 3.00 


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